


The Dollbaby

by BlotOutMyName



Series: The New Intern [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Gotham City Police Department, Murder Mystery, PTSD Harley, Recovery, Sequel, Serial Killer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 29,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4396421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlotOutMyName/pseuds/BlotOutMyName
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Affected by kidnapping, attempted murder, and a close brush with death, teenage Harley Quinzel continues to work at the GCPD, trying to put her life back in order while living with the possibility of more danger to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all who followed me from the last story into the second Intern adventure!  
> If you're new here, welcome. You might be a bit confused and want to consider reading the first one, but don't let me tell you what to do. :)

          She was walking down a dimly lit hallway of an old building, and somewhere the sound of a dripping pipe echoed along the walls.

          _Is this… Arkham?_ She’d walked these halls many times before, on her way to visit Jonathan. But the halls were empty and dark now, and her heels didn’t click along the tile floor. She was barefoot and cold.

          Things were starting to look familiar, and she noticed the nurses’ station that she passed on the way to Jonathan’s room.

          _Am I visiting Jonathan?_ She continued slowly, cautiously, until she neared the large glass viewing window that marked Jonathan’s room. She peered inside. He didn’t look much different that he usually did, she thought. He was huddled in a corner, sitting on his cot, long hair shading his face. He didn’t seem to be shaking, or crying out, and Harley hoped that meant he was getting better.

          “Jonathan?” She knocked on the glass. “It’s Harley, can I come in?”

          She watched Jonathan jump, then slowly lift his head. His hair fell back out of his face, and Harley retched.

          Jonathan’s eyes were gone, replaced by empty sockets. Trails of blood flowed down his cheekbones, dripping onto his filthy straightjacket. With bright orange thread, his mouth had been sewn shut, pulled into a grotesque smile. She watched him, horrified, as he stood and made his way to the door. She turned to run away, run back down the hall, and she ran into someone else.

          There were at least fifty of them standing in her way. Her mother, her father, Jim Gordon, Harvey, Nygma, Leslie, her cousin Liza, everyone. Everyone that she had ever known was standing before her, staring at her without eyes, grinning at her with their huge yarn smiles, all different colors.

          They advanced upon her as a pack, and her only choice was to back down the hallway, past the viewing window, to a set of doors she had never gone through.  Jonathan joined the group that was cornering her, still grinning.

          They all grinned at her; they all stared emptily at her. She could feel tears brimming in her eyes. “What happened to you?” She whispered, because she couldn’t find the strength to scream.

          She was running out of hallway, she noticed, glancing behind her. The two doors at the end were fast approaching, and all she could do was wait for them to come.

          Suddenly she felt the cold steel against her back and hands, and she pushed through the doors, the pack of doll-people following her. She looked around, suddenly knowing that she wasn’t in Arkham anymore.

          She was in an operating theater, one that she knew very well, despite only being in it once. There was nowhere else to go. She was going to die in this room as she had before.

          Cold hands took hold of her and she screamed, trying to fight them off. What was left of Nygma and Harvey had taken her by the arms and lifted her onto a gurney. A gurney covered in dried blood. They forced her wrists into the restraints, and Harley’s scream came out a sob.

          All of the grinning doll-people circled her bed, staring. “Wh- Where are your eyes?” She sobbed, looking from person to person.

          Suddenly, all together, their lips parted, straining at the yarn, and they began to laugh. The sound was haunting and echoed along the high ceiling of the theater, and Harley felt it move swiftly through her, abolishing any hope left in her heart.

          “Dollbaby.” They all said at once, making Harley close her eyes in terror. “Dollbaby, Dollbaby,” They chanted, growing louder. “Dollbaby! Dollbaby! Dollbaby!”

          “Harley!”She was being shaken, violently. Disoriented, she threw a fist and felt it connect with skin. “Ow!” Nygma yelled, and her eyes flew open.

          She sat up suddenly and took in the scene she’d woken up to. Her, sleeping on Nygma’s couch, once again. Nygma, holding a bruised -possibly broken, from the way her hand felt- nose, getting blood all over his mint green pajamas.

          “Nygma, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!”

          “I know,” He said, standing. “You were screaming again.”

          “I was having a nightmare.”

          Nygma walked to the kitchen sink and began to wash his face gingerly. “I usually try to leave you be, but sometimes I’m afraid in the other apartments it sounds like I’m murdering someone with an ax.”    

          Harley laughed. “You could never murder someone with an ax, Nygma.”

          “How am I going to explain my nose to everyone at work?”

          “Hmm…” Harley wondered. “Someone made a vulgar comment about me when we were walking home last night?”

          “No, of course not. They’d notice by the lack of yellowing around the bruise that it happened this morning, rather than last night.”

          “You’re reading too much into it. The only person that might consider that is Leslie, and I doubt she’ll care.”

          Nygma scoffed. “I’m going to get ready.”

          They headed out the door in precisely half an hour, walking through the chill morning air to the precinct. “You know, I’m going to tell Harvey you keep having nightmares.”

          Harley sighed. “Why? He’s not my father. And he worries enough as it is.”

          “You should really see a therapist.”

          Harley blew a warm breath between her cold hands. “It can wait until I’m a therapist myself, thank you.”

         


	2. Selfish Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One little edit of this chapter post-publication, because I'm never satisfied.

          They pushed through the heavy doors of the precinct, and Harley felt an instant sense of calm. She was swept into the bustle, the busyness, the life of the police station. Here there was work to be done, problems to solve, evidence to file, time to use. Here, there was no one trying to kill her, or take her eyes, or kidnap her. She was safe here. She headed up the stairs to Bullock’s desk, said a quick good morning to Harvey and Jim, and asked if they needed anything.

          “No, not this morning. Things have been slow for a while since the Heartless Killings.”

          Harley sat on the corner of Jim’s desk. “What’s going to be done about that? Nygma wounded Dulmacher when he got me out, but it’s obvious he’s still alive.”

          “We’re organizing that. The guy’s got a lot of people working under him, but he’s relatively unknown by the underground. So it’s not as heavy as trying to take down an elected official,” He glanced at Jim, who scowled. “Things are looking pretty good. We might raid the island in maybe a week or so, after all the Heartless stuff has been filed.”

          “Okay, keep me updated. I guess I’ll go see what Nygma needs help with downstairs.” She turned to walk away, and Harvey grabbed her sleeve.

          “Hey,” He said, looking up at her from his desk chair. “Did you sleep last night?”

          Harley wondered how tired she must look for him to ask. “Yeah, a little.”

          Harvey nodded wordlessly and let her go. She headed down to Nygma’s lab and pushed herself up onto the autopsy table.

          Nygma looked up from his newspaper. “How many times have I told you to keep off that table?”

          Harley laughed, and laid back. “I think about as many times you’ve told me to call you Edward.”

          “Harley, are you alright?” His voice was quiet, and she could tell that he was uncomfortable with the question.

          She sat up to look up at him and his brown eyes were soft with concern. “It’s just that- When was the last time you went home? To sleep, and not to get clothes or something?”

          Harley held her head in her hands and considered it. When was the last time she’d gone home? It had been, what, three weeks since getting out of the hospital, a full month since the Dollmaker attack? She’d bounced back and forth between Harvey and Nygma’s apartments, sleeping on couches and in spare rooms. When she looked at them, she only saw their pity for her. She could wallow in it for as long as she wanted, it seemed, but this really wasn’t her. They cared for her, she knew, but what did these two men really know about her? They weren’t family, as much as Nygma felt like an older brother and as much as Harvey seemed to sound like a father. They didn’t know how to push her back into the life she needed to continue living, and she couldn’t allow herself to go on relying so much on them. It was high time that she took control again and got back on track.

          She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. You might be right about me needing to talk to someone, I’ll look into it. And you’re right, I need to go home. I know I’m always welcome to your couch,” She smiled at him. “But I need to start caring for myself again. And I need to thoroughly thank you and Harvey for taking care of me throughout all of this. I still need to thank you for saving my life.”

          He lowered his head, bashful. “It was nothing,” He said quietly.

          “Edward, I wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t for you.”

          Edward’s brow furrowed in frustration. “But what if I was selfish?”

          “Selfish?”

          “Yes, if I saved your life for my own selfish comfort.” He looked pained, and Harley wondered how long this had been bothering him.

          “How could you do that?”

          He buried his face in his hands and spoke through his long fingers. “I didn’t want you to die because I didn’t want to be friendless anymore. I didn’t want to lose my friend. I’m selfish.”

          Harley stood silently and walked to him. He seemed to shrink as he approached. “Hey,” She pulled his hands away from his face, and was taken aback to find tears his eyes. “You’re not being selfish.”

          “Of course I’m being selfish! My stomach dropped when I saw you there, bleeding out like an animal going to slaughter. All I could think about was coming back here,” He said, gesturing towards the lab. “And how cold and lifeless it would be with only me working in it. I picked you up and ran because I worried that I’d never ask you another riddle or tell you to get off the table again! I didn't want to find out how it felt to know that Dr. Thompkins was autopsying you in the next room! You're not a faceless cold body! You're- You're Harley.” He was crying now, with Harley still kneeling beside him, holding his wrists from his face. “I realized how much I would miss you and I didn’t want that to happen! I didn’t want you to die there all alone and cold and scared!” He sobbed, and Harley had to shake him to get him to look at her.

          “Edward!” She yelled and he sniffled, stifling sobs. “Edward, that’s not being selfish. That’s caring for someone. That’s not only considering your own feelings, you considered how much you cared for me and how much impact our friendship had made. Edward,” She took his face in her hand and made him look at her. “You wanted to protect me.” She hugged him and he buried his head into her shoulder, sobbing in her arms.

          She waited until the crying that lessened to occasional sniffles before speaking again. “What kind of coat is put on wet?

          Nygma’s voice was small. “A coat of paint.” There was a pause. “I love you, Harley.”

          “I love you too, Edward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Edward, not understanding friendship nor his own feelings. I wanted him to be a little vulnerable with Harley because he's so childlike sometimes. I promise this fic won't totally be "Aftermath of the Last Fic". There will be a plot. Eventually. Maybe. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Thanks for commenting and leaving kudos and bookmarking and everything! Your support has been incredible. :)


	3. Pietro Crespi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray! The beginning of a plot. I had one direction when I started this and ended it in a completely different one. But I rather like this one more.

          It was a little morbid, Harley considered, how she often looked forward to the next time a body was brought in. Because whenever a body was brought in, she got to spend a few hours with Leslie, poking around in a corpse, searching for evidence and a cause of death. They would talk for hours, Harley mostly leading the conversation, and Leslie listening, occasionally providing input. One could argue that of all the people working at the precinct, Leslie knew her the best. Yes, Nygma was also a confidant, but sometimes a little too eccentric and distracted to listen if she needed to talk. And Harvey was- well, Harvey. They hadn’t had a body come in since Harley had returned to the precinct, and she really needed someone to talk to.

          Which is why she was so relieved when the call came.

          “What are you grinning about?” Harvey asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Most of the forensic team rode to crime scenes in their own van, but Harvey seemed to be nervous when she wasn’t in his line of sight.

          “Nothing, I’m just happy to have a crime scene, to have something to investigate.”

          Jim laughed from the passenger seat. “You’re spending too much time with Nygma. Getting excited over dead bodies.”

          Harley smirked. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

          Harvey and Jim exchanged a glance. “Just like Nygma,” Harvey chuckled, and pulled into an alley.

          “What do we got?” Jim asked Nygma, who was crouched at the body’s head, peeking under the white sheet. 

          “From what the first response officers told me, it looks like a prostitute.” He pulled the sheet back and Harley gasped. The girl’s body had been torn roughly open at the abdomen, her cutoff shorts pulled down mid-thigh, a single gaudy heel clung to one foot, its partner thrown a few feet away. A deep gash ran across her throat, and Harley thought she could see a flash of white within the wound. Her throat was slit deep enough to reveal the bones of her neck. What was left of her face offered no clues as to what she had looked like. Nose, mouth and most of the eyes had been hacked away, pieces of flesh strewn around the alley, still wet with the previous night’s rain.

          “Jesus,” Bullock muttered. Harley quickly rounded the corner, falling to weak knees and vomiting her breakfast in the gutter, vaguely remembering that Harvey had once said the first body was the most disgusting. He’d been wrong.

          “You okay, kid?” Harvey stood beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. She stood and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

          “Yeah, I’m okay. That’s just brutal.”

          Harvey sighed. “I agree. Let’s just get this cleaned up quick and then we can go back.”

          Harley hung back for most of the morning, letting Nygma take the reins in gathering evidence. He seemed unfazed by the grotesqueness of the body, chattering away as he usually did, asking riddles to anyone that came within three feet of him and usually being ignored.

          She pitied him for that, being ignored. In a way, he was the simplest person she knew, on a constant quest for answers, doing all that he could to help the detectives. But in another way, he was incredibly unusual, not understanding what about his behavior made him odd to others. She wondered if he told riddles to feel intellectually above others because he was socially or emotionally below them.

          “Harley? Harley!” She jumped, jolting out of her thoughts.

          “What, Nygma?”

          “Will you hand me the camera?” He was crouched next to the body’s head, poking his fingers between the teeth to open the jaw. Wordlessly, she fished the camera out of the equipment bag and handed it to him. “Based on the teeth, it looks like we have a victim of about sixteen years of age.” He snapped a few pictures of the head and moved down to the rest of the body. “Harley, do we have any tattoos or distinctive markings that we can use for identification? She doesn’t seem to have any ID on her.”

          Harley glanced around the body, trying to avoid looking at the mangled face or the huge gash in the girl’s throat. Her eye caught a speck of black. “Hey, we have a tattoo on the left wrist.”

          “What of?”

          “Three dots in the shape of a triangle.”

          Nygma nodded. “Ah, she’s a Petra, then.”

          “A what?”

          “The prostitutes in the employ of Pietro Crespi are called Petras. He requires them to get that tattoo, to show who they belong to. As far as pimps go, he’s the best to work for. A very powerful man, but independent from the Falcone and Maroni families. He’s gained a lot of territory and business since Maroni’s death. But most of his money is from imports and prostitution.”

          “No one roughs up Crespi’s girls.” Harvey said, standing over them, face solemn. “He goes after anyone who does.”

          “So what does this mean?” Harley glanced up at him.

          “This means that someone is picking a fight with one of the most powerful men left in Gotham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to start as a sort of Jack the Ripper copycat, who mostly murdered prostitutes in one area of London, but it took a much different turn, where it came from I haven't a clue. The description of the corpse is similar to a victim of the Ripper. 
> 
> Pietro Crespi is an Italian character in One Hundred Years of Solitude. He basically gets led on by a girl, gets rejected, then falls in love with her sister, gets led on again, then rejected again. He eventually commits suicide, and I've always felt bad for him. So I've kind of decided to revive the name for a different character. 
> 
> Petra Cotes is another character in One Hundred Years of Solitude (I picked the name Petra because it sounded like Pietro, then realized that Petra was another character from the same book, whoops). She was a concubine of a man, and their love for each other created much prosperity and wealth. 
> 
> I noticed the tattoo of three dots in a triangle of Fish Mooney's wrist during an episode once, and wondered if it was a tattoo of Jada Pinkett-Smith's, or one unique to Fish. I threw it in there as a kind of question of Fish's past, because that's fun. 
> 
> Wow, so many references. Thank you to all who have read this little fic, or the one before it. Thank you for commenting and bookmarking and leaving kudos!


	4. Autopsy Session

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be posted last night, but I didn't like how it ran. So here it is now, after some heavy editing.

          “Leslie?”

          “Yes?” Dr. Thompkins looked up at her through plastic goggles. She was autopsying what was left of the Petra’s body, and Harley was working on taking fingerprints in an attempt at identifying her.

          “I went home last night for the first time in over a month.”Leslie glanced at her curiously.

          “You’ve been wearing the same clothes for a month and no one has noticed?”

          Harley chuckled, and Leslie smiled. “No, I went home to stay, to sleep for a few hours. I usually just went to get things I needed.”

          “Where have you been sleeping?”

          “I’ve practically moved into Nygma’s apartment,” She said. It was true, her toiletries littered his spotless bathroom sink and drove him insane. Her clothes were folded in a pile at the end of the couch, almost tall enough to fall over.

          “I see.” Leslie pulled a glove off and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I heard whisperings.”

          Harley sighed. She had heard that their relationship was suspected to be a little more illicit than it actually was, but no one had confronted either of them about it. “I’ve been sleeping on his couch. I haven’t really wanted to be alone. It—“ She hesitated.

          “It scares you?”Leslie was looking at her with her soft, attentive eyes, and Harley felt a sense of safety.

          “Yeah. I’ve been having nightmares. And sometimes I seem to go blank, as Nygma puts it. I stare off and don’t remember any of the time that has passed. I’ll be doing something, and then realize that I don’t remember doing most of it. Once I remember leaving his apartment to go to the precinct, and I didn’t recall if we walked or drove. And sometimes he says that I become unresponsive altogether for short periods of time.”

          “That’s called dissociation. Not a common symptom of post-traumatic stress, but it’s not unheard of.”

          “I think it scares Nygma. Sometimes he asks me questions of things that happened minutes ago to see if I’m aware.”

          “Are you?”

          “Most of the time. He wants me to see a therapist.” Leslie pursed her lips, considering.

          “Do you remember your nightmares?”

          “Yes, vividly.”

          “Are they about the Dollmaker?”

          “Yes, they take place in the operating theater where I bled out. But it starts in the halls of Arkham usually.”

          “Is the Dollmaker present in them?”

          “No, but everyone I’ve ever known seems to be in them. Including you and a lot of people at the precinct.”   

          Leslie had pulled off the other glove, looking considerably interested. “Really? How does everyone appear?”

          “Everyone’s eyes have been gouged out, and their mouths are sewn shut with yarn. They’re his Dollbabies.”

          “Dollbabies?”

          Harley sighed, not wanting to continue, not wanting to bring it all up again. “The donors that are physically pristine are called Dollbabies. He said that I was the most perfect one.”

          “Wow,” Leslie breathed. “I didn’t know that he spoke to you.”

          “The way one would speak to a patient.”

          “Harley, why are you telling me this?” She looked concerned, and while Harley appreciated the care in her eyes, she didn’t know if she liked the apprehension in her voice.

          “I don’t know, because I think you understand a little better sometimes. And because I don’t know what to do.”

          “I don’t know if seeing a therapist would be a good idea, considering that the detectives are fairly certain that the Dollmaker is still going to come looking for you. You need to lie low for a while. But if you want, we can keep talking like this during autopsies, or you can visit me anytime you like.”

          Harley smiled. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

          “It’s no problem, I appreciate the company.” Leslie smiled. “And I don’t think it’s in your best interests to force yourself to be alone. If it helps with the nightmares, stay in someone’s company.”

          “Yeah, I’ll ask Nygma later. Thank you, Dr. Thompkins.”

          “Leslie.”

          Harley laughed. “Leslie.”


	5. A Lonely Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such infrequent updates. This story is coming along a little slower, mostly due to a hectic schedule. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all of the support!

          Harley brushed a strand of hair out of her face, and continued walking. These halls looked familiar and she felt as if she had seen them before, and recently. Her bare feet were chilled from the cold tile floor, but she continued walking.

          Behind her, she heard a door slam. She turned, and found the wire gate that she had left open was now shut, and presumably locked. Her breath hitched in her chest. _Where am I? Why am I here?_

          Suddenly, an alarm buzzed and the doors lining the halls opened in unison. She stood frozen  to the spot, terror seeping into her chest. One by one, each room’s occupant stepped out into the hall, and turned to look at her.

          They didn’t have any eyes, blood flowing from the empty sockets. Their mouths were sewn shut with bright colors of yarn, pulling their faces into terrifying smiles. Harley felt a scream escape her throat, long and hoarse, and found that she couldn’t do anything to stop it.

          These were people that she knew, people that she loved. Nygma, her mother, Liza, Leslie, Harvey, Jim. They all staggered slowly towards her, smiling and staring. She couldn’t do anything, only stand and stare at the monsters approaching, tears coursing down her cheeks.

          “Dollbaby,” Harvey whispered, and Harley sobbed. “Dollbaby. Dollbaby.”

          “Dollbaby! Dollbaby!” The pack shouted, and Harley felt cold, gentle hands force her to the floor and hold her down. She looked up at Nygma, standing over her, and watched him take a small scalpel from the pocket of his lab coat. Leslie stood beside him, grinning, slowly unwinding a ball of yellow yarn.

          Nygma knelt down to her, and she looked at him, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Edward.” He took her chin firmly in his hand, and readied the scalpel in the other. “Edward, please,” She sobbed. His brows knit together over eyeless sockets, and abruptly forced the scalpel into her left eye.

          “Edward!” Harley screamed, and felt herself falling. She hit the floor, hitting her head painfully on the nightstand, the impact knocking the breath from her chest. She gasped and sobbed, trying to shake the dream from her mind. She crawled back into bed, holding her head in her hands. Waves of fear swept over her, breaths coming in short gasps, making her lightheaded. Thunder boomed outside, and the lightning lit up her room.

          She couldn’t go back to sleep like this. She couldn’t be alone like this. Her hand fumbled over the surface of the night table until she found her phone and dialed.

          “Harley?” Edward’s voice was soft and full of sleep. Her only response was to cry. “Harley, what is it? Are you alright?”

          “I- I just- I tried to stay alone.” She sobbed. “I can’t-“

          “Harley, you’re okay. It’ll be alright. I’m on my way, okay?”

          She cried and nodded, before remembering that he couldn’t see her through the phone. “Okay.” Her voice shook.

          “I’ll be there soon.” She heard the line disconnect, and she suddenly felt the most unbearable sense of aloneness that she’d ever felt. The fear came in waves, the images of her dream coming back to her. She curled up in bed, pulling the blankets over herself to hide from the lightning and the thunder and the fear. Her muscles were tense and she shivered.

          She couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but it was an eternity until she heard a knock on her apartment door. Gathering all her bravery, she left the safety of her bed. She opened the door without looking through the peephole, a rather foolish thing to do, after all that had happened to her.

          Edward stood before her, breathing heavily. His hair was plastered across his forehead with rain and his glasses were askew on his face. Only two buttons held his coat together, and she could see his pajamas underneath. He looked her up and down, analyzing, and noticed the tears still on her face.

          “Harley,” He breathed, confusion and pity playing starkly across his face. “What happened?”

          She ran to his arms without an answer, and she felt his rain soaked sleeves envelop her. She cried into his coat and felt the fear and panic ebb away. She was protected by the arms around her. Nothing could find her here; no monsters of her dreams could carve out her eyes here.

          She felt her knees give out from the exhaustion of the panic, and wordlessly, Nygma took her weight, picking her up gently and walking to the couch. He sat down with her still in his arms and held her, silent.

          “You don’t have to be afraid, you know. There are so many people that care for you, and they would do anything to protect you. But I can understand why you’re afraid. I’m sorry that you’re afraid.”

          Harley sniffled and wiped the tears away. “I know. Edward?”

          “What?”

          “Will- Will you stay here tonight?”She heard him smile in the darkness.

          “Yeah. Do you want to go back to bed?” She nodded, and he stood, carrying her to her room.

          “How do you know where my room is?” She asked weakly, resting her head on his shoulder.

          He put her down gently against the mattress, and sat on the floor. “It’s not a very big apartment,” He chuckled, then his face became serious and a bit sad. “And after you were kidnapped, Bullock, Jim and I searched here, looking for you. Zsasz left a message for us on your bed.”

          “What?” Harley yawned, already beginning to feel tired.

          “He tore out one of your fingernails, and wrote a note saying it would be the last we ever saw of you.” Nygma’s voice was quiet and hesitant, and Harley felt bad for dredging up such a horrible memory.

          “Hmm,” Harley whispered, looking at her hand. “That’s what happened.”

          Nygma put a hand on her head, brushing her messy hair back. “Go to sleep. We have work tomorrow.”

          “Edward-“

          “I’ll sleep on the couch, but I’m not going to leave until you fall asleep.” She felt warm tears slip from her eyes, and her heart swelled. Why was he so devoted to her? Maybe she’d never know, but she owed him so much already. He’d saved her life, slept on hospital couches for her, opened his home to her, and taken a punch in the nose. Her hand crept from the warm blankets and found his, grasping tightly. His hand gently squeezed hers in return.

          “Thank you,” She said, her voice wet with tears. He smiled, but remained silent. An old haiku that her mother loved surfaced vaguely in her mind as she slipped swiftly back into sleep.

          _A nocturnal guard,_

_Stands watch while we sleep tonight,_

_A lonely soldier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The haiku is one that I actually wrote a long while ago, and it's originally about the moon. It suddenly seemed to be the best way to end the chapter, and I really like it. 
> 
> I've never really had a panic attack, and I don't know much about them, but I assume that they are very exhausting. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! :)


	6. Worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the updates are so random and unpredictable.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Your support has been amazing.

          Edward woke her at four in the morning to tell her he was leaving.

          “I don’t want to be walking home in my pajamas while all of Gotham is on its way to work,” He whispered, and Harley giggled sleepily at the idea. “I’ll see you at work?”

          “Yeah, you’ll see me at work.” Ed looked relieved. He kissed her tentatively on the forehead and left.

          She couldn’t fall back asleep now that she knew she was alone, so she got up and got dressed and puttered around her apartment until it was time to head to the precinct. The bodies were practically rolling in now, and the forensic team was struggling to keep up. She spent hours with Leslie, autopsying the mangled Petras. She told Leslie about her father, and Jonathan, and how much she missed them both. She talked about feeling guilty for using some of the money her father had put aside for her to pay for her lengthy hospital stay. It was money that was made from murder and literally stealing the hearts of Gotham’s citizens, but she couldn’t ask her mother for help. Not after things had ended so badly between them.

          She pitied the Petras lying on the table, often her age or younger. What had happened to them to cause them to give away what was so important? It was at times like these that she was thankful for her own work ethic. She wasn’t from a nice part in town, and many of her childhood friends had ended up in a few less-than-legal situations. But she had worked hard since she realized that she didn’t want to live in such an environment for the rest of her life. She’d graduated two years early, took college classes, and gotten an internship at the GCPD. She was doing a lot better than most of the people she’d left high school with.

          “Harley?” She looked up to find Leslie staring at her, concerned.

          “I’m okay. What did you need?”

          “You just looked… distant.”

          “I’m fine, just kind of zoned out for a bit. I was thinking about how terrible these girls’ lives probably were.”

          Leslie pursed her lips. “From what Jim’s told me, being a Petra was the best thing a poor girl could be. Crespi takes pretty good care of them. He supplies housing, basic healthcare, protection. It all sounds tempting if you’re faced with living on the street.”

          Harley sighed. “I suppose so.”

          There was a knock on the door, and Harvey poked his head in. Leslie turned. “What can I help you with, Detective Bullock?”

          “I need to talk to Harley,” He said curtly. Harley frowned, seeing the concern in his eyes. Something was happening, or something was wrong. She followed him out into the hall.

          “What is it?”

          “We’re raiding the Dollmaker’s island. Tonight. Me, Jim, a few trusted officers, a handful of SWAT guys.”

          Harley’s breath hitched in her chest. “When?”

          “A little after one in the morning. We’re hoping to catch them as off-guard as possible. We’re sending you home with an officer to make sure that you’re safe.”

          Harley could feel her heart hammering in her chest. “This is dangerous.”

          Harvey’s eyes creased with worry. “I know. I’ll come afterwards to tell you how everything went.”

          “You promise?”

          “I promise.” There was a heavy silence for a moment, then Harley stepped quickly forward and hugged him, inhaling the scent of spearmint and leather, hoping that everything would turn out alright. Bullock seemed a little taken aback by the embrace for a second, then enveloped Harley in his arms, resting his chin on her head.

          He didn’t want to tell her, but he was worried too. More worried than he should be. He’d come to care for this strange girl, more mature and capable than a lot of the people he worked with on a daily basis, but at the same time, as sensitive and naïve as any teenager would be. It was a strange, almost foreign feeling to him, caring. It had been so long since someone mattered besides himself. He closed his eyes and remembered the gut-wrenching worry he’d felt when he knew something was wrong, the sickening drop in his stomach when he’d searched her apartment and found only one bloodied fingernail. He remembered the terror he’d felt while holding her limp, half-conscious body, and the guilt when he’d sat at the side of her hospital bed, waiting for the same old cheerful and helpful Harley to surface out of a coma. It had been a long time since anyone called him a father, and longer since that he’d felt like one, but the same feeling was there.

          He pulled away gently. “Go back to work. When you leave, someone will go with you and stay until we come back. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

          Harley nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat. _It’ll all be okay, Harley-girl._


	7. Lovely Rita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little chapter with a big cliffhanger, no big deal. :)

          The officer that walked home with her was a short, black woman named Rita, and Harley immediately found her comforting. As they walked, Rita chattered away about her young son. “He got the lead in the school play,” Rita said, beaming with pride. “It’s ‘Peter Pan’. He’s so excited to go up on wires and fly.” Harley smiled, content to listen. It seemed that for a lot of the conversations she’d had recently, she was the one that talked the most. She was happy to hear about someone else’s life for once, rather than talk about her father, or her recent brush with death.

          They arrived at her apartment, and Harley offered her companion a seat. “I don’t really know what this situation entails,” Harley chuckled nervously.

          “Honey, you can do whatever you please. If you want, you can pretend I’m not here.”

          “I don’t think I can do that. It’s been a while since I’ve had company, and I kind of like having someone else around.” Harley cooked dinner, and they spent a few hours in front of the TV, watching the news and chatting idly.

          She found out that Rita was originally from Wisconsin, and her husband worked as an emergency room doctor in Gotham General. She was originally an EMT and met her husband when she had rushed an overdosing drug addict to the hospital. “It was such a hectic and terrible place to meet,” Rita said. “But I did notice how big his arms were underneath the scrubs,” She added, and laughed.

          As the hours passed, Harley could feel a rising flutter of worry in her stomach. Another thunderstorm boomed outside, making the lights flicker every so often. _Why does it always rain when something dangerous is happening?_  She hadn’t planned on sleeping until she had heard from Harvey, and now she realized that she couldn’t sleep now, even if she wanted to.

          By one o’clock she was pacing. Rita’s constant comforting monologue had slowed to a few nervous sentences a minute, and Harley could tell that she was watching her. They both knew that all of the officers that went were in danger, at risk of injury or even death.

           A knock came a few minutes before two, and Harley sighed with relief, and looked at Rita, who grinned back. This was Harvey, coming to tell them that everything went well, that the Dollmaker was in custody, and that Rita could go home to her husband and son. Harley felt the tenseness melt away and smiled as the opened the door.

          Jim stood before her, plastered with rain and shivering. His hair stuck to his forehead, and rainwater dripped from his brows and eyelashes. His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. They stood awestruck for a moment, staring at each other. He looked pained by her gaze, and averted his eyes. Her stomach dropped. Why was Jim here and not Harvey? She felt her heart beginning to pound, and a cold feeling climbed up from her fingers into her arms and chest. Harvey was supposed to come, not Jim. Why was Jim here?

          “What’s going on? What happened?” Harley could hear her voice rising in volume and pitch. “Where’s Harvey?”

          Jim looked up at her, still struggling to speak. Harley could barely hear his answer over her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

          “Gotham General.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lovely Rita" is my favorite Beatles song. It's about a guy that has a crush on the lady who writes tickets at parking meters. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and bookmarking and leaving kudos! Every time I get a notification, it makes me happy. :) So thank you.


	8. Her Harvey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in the notes of a crappy old iPod two days ago, then saved until I had internet access. So much effort.   
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy it!

          Harley's knees shook. It felt wrong to ride in the front seat. Harvey and Jim rode up front, and she was always in the back. Her mind raced, flying through all the possible scenarios that could have brought her to the front seat of the detectives' cruiser.

          "Jim, what's happening? What's going on?" Her voice was frantic, pleading.  Jim's mouth became a thin line and his foot put more weight on the gas.

          "They knew we were coming. The Dollmaker and most of the staff escaped, but not before killing half the prisoners in the basement, just because they could. We ran into gunfire with a few guards and," Jim swallowed. "Harvey was shot twice in the chest."

          Her vision blurred.

          "Harley, we don't know if he'll make it."

          She stifled a sob and blinked back tears. It was one thing to cry in front of Nygma, or Harvey, but she couldn't let herself break down in front of Jim.

          For the entirety of her presence at the GCPD, he'd treated her with nothing more that a familiar indifference. He'd thank her for bringing him files without looking at her. She'd always gotten the feeling that he viewed her as a child, too small and unimportant for his time, but satisfied that she wasn't constantly underfoot.

          And even now, when Harvey was likely dying as they drove to the hospital, she still worried about what Jim would think of her. They rode in silence and the trip to the hospital was the longest eternity she'd ever felt.

          Jim strode wordlessly down the anonymous white halls, Harley following close at his heels. Her stomach had been turning since she opened the door to find Jim instead of Bullock, and now, hearing the click of their heels against the dull floors, she wondered if she’d be sick.

          Jim stopped and opened a door to their left. He held it open for Harley and followed behind her. Her breath escaped her chest against her will, and Jim watched her frame minutely crumple. "Oh," She breathed, almost accidentally. "Oh."

          Harvey lay in a hospital bed, amid a mass of tubes and wires. His shoulders and chest were bare except for several layers of gauze, wrapping around his torso and left shoulder. Some spots of red had blossomed amid the sterile color of white, and Harley felt a tear slip down her cheek. Half of his face was obscured by a heavy tube in his mouth, weakly pushing and pulling breath in and out of his lungs. She could only barely see his chest rise and fall. He looked so weak and crumpled, not the same Harvey at all.

          This was not the same Harvey that had pushed her violently against a brick wall, suspecting her of knowing a little too much to be innocent. This was not the same Harvey that promised to keep the secret that was her murderous father. This was not the same Harvey that had held her in the men's locker room when her world and everything in it had been falling apart once more. This was not the same Harvey that rocked her gently as she slid between life and death. This was not the same Harvey that slept for days on hospital couches, waiting for her to wake from an induced coma. Harley sniffled and wiped furiously at her eyes. This was not her Harvey. Her Harvey held everything together, her Harvey knew that everything was going to be fine. Her Harvey promised.

          "What-" Her voice shook. "What happened?"

          "One lung collapsed, internal bleeding, lots of blood loss." She swallowed and she felt Jim's eyes on her.

          "I see. Is he going to wake up soon?”

          “They have him on a lot of morphine.”

          Tears welled in her eyes. “Can- Can we be alone?” She was thankful that he stood behind her, unable to see her face. There was no sound from Jim besides the door closing. A sob escaped her throat and for a moment, she wondered how many days of the last month had been spent crying.

          Her shaking legs brought her to Harvey’s bedside, and she stood over his weak form. She felt herself fall to her knees, and she took his hand in hers. It was warm, and for a moment she hoped that she would feel his hand squeeze hers. But she knew that she wouldn’t. Harvey was unaware, held under by IV sleep that made pain an afterthought and time intangible.

          “Harvey,” Her voice broke, wet with tears. “Harvey, what happened? Is this my fault?”

          _Of course it’s your fault. Everything that happened over the past two months was directly caused by you. Everything._

          “No,” She sobbed. “No, it can’t all be my fault. Harvey, please. I need you. I need you to wake up and tell me it’s not my fault. Please, Harvey.”

          _Harvey might never wake up again and it’s entirely because of you. You brought everything down on him and everyone at the GCPD. They only pity you, Harley. Harley. Harley-whose-father-was-a-murderer. Why else would Nygma let you sleep in his apartment? Why else would Harvey feel obligated to go after the Dollmaker? They only pity you, and it’s your fault. Everything is your fault._

          “No!” She screamed, and she felt Jim’s face appear in the window, concerned. “I didn’t do anything!” Tears were streaking messily across her face now, and she couldn’t be bothered to wipe them away.

          _Harley, you did everything. Your father murdered people for you and died for you. Jonathan loved you and look what happened to him._ Harley’s sobbing ceased, replaced by hoarse, animal cries of pain. _Harvey went after the Dollmaker because he felt bad for you, and now he’s dying because of you. Everything you touch withers. Everyone you love dies._

          She could only vaguely hear her own crying, muffled by her thoughts. She was completely lost. What was she to do now? Every person that she had relied on had been hurt or killed. Harvey and her father were dead or dying because of her. What did she do to cause all of this pain? She brought the heel of her hand to her forehead, trying to force out the thoughts. She felt a dull, blunt pain above her eyebrow and it distracted her from Harvey and every mistake she’d made.

          _It’s all your fault._

          “No!” She screamed, bringing her hand to her head again. The pain blossomed and for a moment, she could hear her own sobbing clearly.

          _Why are you crying? You did all of this yourself._

          “No,” Her voice weakened, and she laid another blow above her eyebrow. “No, I didn’t!” The heel of her hand hit again and again, muffling out the world, making her close her eyes against the pain. “No! No!”

          Suddenly she was lurched back, falling onto someone. “Harley!” Jim yelled, holding her tightly. He lay on the floor, her on top of him. He gripped her tightly around waist and tried to pin her arms. She kicked and flailed, screeching and screaming like a caught animal. She hit her forehead a few more times until he noticed that she was hurting herself. An arm wrapped around her head, covering her eyes. He held her, taking the last futile blows against his forearm. She stilled, crying and weak, and he looked at her with genuine fear in his eyes.

          “It’s all my fault,” She moaned, burying her head in his jacket. “It’s all my fault.”

          She felt an embrace wrapping around her, this time for the purpose of comfort, not restraint. His arms were strong and she felt almost as safe as she’d felt with Harvey. “It’s not your fault, Harley.”

          “It is!” She cried, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “You only went after the Dollmaker because of me.”

          Jim looked down at her, a calming storm in his eyes. “Because you gave us substantial evidence. We went after one of the most successful serial killers in Gotham, and you helped lead us to him.” He shuffled backwards to sit against the wall, and Harley moved with him, not wanting to break the contact. “It’s really hard to tell with Harvey,” He paused, and she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I think he once had a family, and you must remind him of them. He protects you fiercely.”

          “He does?” She felt him nod.

          “He scared the living daylights out of Nygma, making sure that nothing fishy was happening when you stayed at his apartment.” He chuckled, and Harley laughed weakly.

          “It’s a really weird situation between the two of you. But,” Jim looked down at her. “It seems real. He loves you, Harley.”

          It took all of her strength to smile softly. She looked at Harvey, thinking. While she had been viewing him as a makeshift father for some time now, she never wondered if she was standing in for someone else in his life. Maybe that’s why they seemed to fit together. They were both filling a void for the other.

          “I know,” She said. “I love him too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter that brought tears to my eyes. I wanted to show a few of the little cracks in Harley's armor, at least mentally.


	9. Played Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

          It was almost five by the time Jim began to drive Harley home.

          “Hey, don’t come into work, okay? I’ll talk to Essen. You need to get some sleep.” Harley nodded weakly. “You alright?”

          “Yeah,” She sighed, sounding unconvincing. She was just so _tired_. She hadn’t slept at all tonight and the strain of crying and fighting Jim weighed on her.

          Jim pulled up outside of her building. “Do you want me to walk you up?”

          “No, I’ll be okay.” He looked concerned.

          “He’ll pull through, Harley. He wouldn’t have made it this long if he weren’t tough.”

          She tried to smile. “Thanks, Jim.”

          “No problem.” She stepped out and turned back to him, fishing her keys from her pocket and twisting the spare off the ring.

          “Give this to Nygma. Ask him to come and check on me after he gets off work, okay?”

          Jim looked from the key to her before taking it. “Okay. Get some sleep in the meantime, alright?” She nodded, and he put the car into gear.

          She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching him pull away until his car rounded a corner. Maybe there was more to Jim than she had originally seen. She went up to her apartment, dropping her bag by the door, shedding her coat as she made her way to her room. All she needed was sleep.

          Kicking off her shoes, she collapsed into bed, still wearing yesterday’s clothes. She felt cold. She sighed, closing her eyes. Worry hammered at her mind and it was all she could do not to scream. _It’s not my fault. Harvey will be okay. Harvey cares about me. He won’t blame me. It’s not my fault…_

          There was a knock at her door, and Harley opened her eyes.  The light streaming through the windows was dark, and for a moment, she hadn’t realized she’d been asleep at all. But a glance to her clock told her that she had slept from early morning to early evening.

          She heard her door lock click and she panicked until she heard Nygma’s voice. “Harley?”

          “In here,” She said, surprised at how hoarse and weak her voice was. She heard him step into the doorway. “Did you miss me today?”

          “Yes. Detective Gordon told me what happened.”

          She sighed. “Yeah.”

          “Detective Bullock is getting better. He’s conscious now.” She looked up at him for the first time since he entered. “He immediately asked about you.”

          Harley couldn’t think of anything to say. She was played out, as far as she was concerned. Too much worry and fear and guilt over the last month and a half. She just wanted to sleep and listen to Nygma’s voice.

          “Harley?” His voice was quiet, cautious.

          “Nygma…” She could feel herself breaking, exhausted. She didn’t want to cry again, but else could she do? How could she even begin to put everything back together?

          She felt a dip in the mattress, and felt Nygma moving across the bedspread. He laid beside her and gently pulled her into his arms, and she cried into his chest. Nygma, comforting Nygma, innocent Nygma, naïve Nygma, likely not understanding how suspicious this situation would look to anyone but themselves.         

          “What do you need?” He implored, worry creeping into his voice. He had no idea how to comfort her, and she felt a pang of guilt at confusing him.

          “I- I just want to sleep,” She sobbed. “But I haven’t slept in a long time. I feel guilty and scared and angry and sad all at once. And it won’t let me sleep. I’m tired of crying. I can’t have people comforting me all the time. I need to stand on my own.”

          “Harley,” He said, pressing his cheek against her head, rocking her slightly. “You can’t do this all on your own. You can’t rely only on yourself. Do you feel better with me? Do you feel less scared?”

          She nodded. “Mm hmm.”

          “Can you sleep if I’m here with you?”

          She considered it. “M-maybe.”

          He held her a little tighter. “I’ll be here. I’m here.” She closed her eyes, and felt the sensation of Nygma rocking her gently in his arms. This, she noted, was the safest she’d felt in a long time. As she slipped out of consciousness again, she still found comfort in hearing Nygma talking softly. “I’m here. You’ll be alright…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harley, all she does is cry. But if I'd gone through what she has, I'd cry a lot too. She's getting better, and Bullock is too.


	10. Embrace The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite chapters! Yay! I wrote this a while ago and was waiting for the perfect time to tie it into the plot.

          “I want to thank you for comforting me last night,” Harley said, trying to sound as professional as one could be in her situation. “I was sort of at the end of my rope.”

          “It was no problem,” Nygma said absentmindedly, studying forensic samples through the microscope. He grunted and slammed his fist on the table, frustrated. “Negative again!”

          “What?”

          “All of the bodies were swabbed to see if the killer had left any… fluids. But it seems that he wasn’t a client, because none of the samples come up with any DNA.”

          “So,” Harley mused. “He wasn’t using them. He’s just killing prostitutes for no reason?”

          Nygma sighed. “It appears so. Which makes our job so much harder. There wasn’t anything under the victims’ fingernails either, so he didn’t have to fight with any of them.”

          “Could it be that he was posing as a possible customer to lure them close enough?”

          “It’s the best theory I’ve heard so far.”

          “But we don’t have a motive.”

          Nygma looked up, and shrugged. “Sometimes they’re just insane.” Harley scoffed.

          “Anyone who’d take someone else’s life is still pretty insane to me.” She saw Nygma stiffen for a moment and look back down, but didn’t think anything of it. “And that’s coming from the daughter of a serial killer. He had a motive, but it was still twisted.” There was a silence, and Harley wondered if anything was wrong with Nygma. “Do you need anything from me right now?”

          “Not really,” Nygma said curtly. “If you’re going to go see Detective Gordon, will you tell him that the last victim’s test came up negative?”

          She hopped off the table, eager to give Nygma some space. “Sure thing.” She headed up to the detectives’ desks and sat in Harvey’s chair, propping her feet on the desk like he so often did. It made her feel better. Jim raised his head, and Harley noticed how worn he looked.

          “What’s up?”  
          “We’ve got no ID on the killer. Didn’t leave any DNA in the Petras, so he’s not a client. It’s possible that he pretended to express interest in their, um, services to lure them closer. No skin cells underneath fingernails or in the mouth or stomach, so no biting or clawing happened. No struggle.”

                    Jim sighed, raking his fingers through his short hair. "So we’re completely in the dark?”

          “As it would seem right now. What are you up to?”

          “Filing. I never knew how much Harvey actually did until now," He laughed humorlessly. "I just thought that he never did any of the paperwork." Harley sat up and took her feet off of Harvey's desk, feeling bad for looking so casual in front of a very frazzled Jim. He seemed to be treating her with a little more warmth than usual.

          "Is there anything I can do?"  
          Jim sighed. "Not really. All of this stuff is cases from a few weeks ago, ones that you missed."  
          Harley pursed her lips. "I see. I'm sorry."  
          "Yeah, it's okay. I just have no idea how I'll get this done today."  
          "Hey, Jim!" A voice yelled from below. Jim leaned his head over the balcony railing. "We got a perp here for ya. Said you've met before.”  
          "Who?"  
          The cop shrugged. "Wouldn't give a name. Call came in for breaking and entering. Found him hiding under a bed, waiting to scare little kids. He's in the holding pen right now."  
          Jim pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at Harley. "Do you think you can handle this? Just try to get a name and some basic info from this guy?"  
          Harley's brow furrowed. "Don't I have to be supervised if I'm questioning someone?"  
          "Yeah, probably. I just need to catch up on some of this," He gestured towards the files. "Just take this." He pulled a clipboard out of a drawer. "Fill out a few of the blanks on the basic info section and I'll be down in ten." He saw how hesitant she looked and ran another hand through his hair. "Harley, please?"

          She stood. "Fine.  In ten. I'm timing you."  
          Jim smiled, relieved. "Thank you."  
          She headed down the stairs and pulled a chair up to the bars of the holding pen. Only one person occupied it.  
          He was rather young from what she could tell, probably her age, or a little younger. He stared off into space, and Harley found herself admiring his wide green eyes, set off by disheveled red hair hanging in his face. She cleared her throat to gain his attention as well as to keep herself from getting distracted.  
          He glanced at her, noticing her for the first time, and instantly grinned, chewing his gum in an open mouth. "Well, aren't you a peach." His voice was deeper than she expected and it caught her off guard. _Is that his actual voice or is he dropping it?_

He cocked his head to one side and Harley almost scoffed. "They've never sent me a young one before." He leaned forward until his head almost touched the bars. "A lot of people here think I'm scary," He said, as if the information were taboo.  
          "What's your name?" Harley said, holding up the pen and clipboard to make clear that the flirting was not going to be reciprocated.  
          "Anything you want it to be, honey," He drawled, leaning back with legs spread wide.  
          Harley rolled her eyes. "I just need your name."

          The boy sighed dramatically. “Jerome.” A smirk. “What’s yours?”

          Harley scrawled along the paper. “Date of birth?”

          “You know, peach, you aren’t that talkative. It comes off as rude.”

          Harley rolled her eyes up to Jim’s desk and wondered how many minutes were left. “I believe I asked for your date of birth.”

          “You don’t wanna talk to me?”

          She sighed. “I want to do my job. And if I’m distracting you, we can always find you a cop that does want to talk.”

          “Nah. You’d miss me.” He grinned and this time Harley did scoff.

          “I just need to tell me a few things about yourself, like why you were found in someone’s apartment, under their child’s bed.”

          The boy sighed. “People need a sense of humor. I pride myself on mine.”

          “I fail to see what’s funny about breaking and entering, as well as scaring the living daylights out of small children.”

          And suddenly he vaulted towards her, hands shooting between the bars and grabbing her wrists, knocking the pen and clipboard to the floor. He yanked her roughly forward, her face inches from his, only the bars separating them. His eyes filled with a darkness that Harley thought humanly impossible.

          “Now, peach,” He growled. “Sometimes a man’s sense of humor is all he’s got. Don’t stomp all over it, just as we’re getting to know each other.”

          Harley straightened her face, ignoring the tight pain in her wrists. “Please let me go.”She looked at him coldly, and he clicked his tongue.

          “I know you. I know your type. You walk around like many of these officers in here, orchestrating your little world on puppet strings. All you need is an occasional loss of control to level the cities, to bring you back the reality. The reality being that you can’t control anything. Don’t you agree, peach?”

          Harley scowled. “No, I do not. A loss of control is what sends cars into telephone poles. A loss of control is what sends people into downward spirals. A loss of control is what brings a city to its knees before its own criminals,” She spat.

          She expected him to get angry at her defiance, but he only smiled. “I understand. You like your little world under your control. You light it up with floodlights to keep out the shadows. The shadows are where you’ve been hurt before.” He paused, and Harley could only stare at him, dumbfounded. “You can’t stand the chaos because you like to be anchored.” He loosened his grip on her wrists, taking her hands in his own. “But,” He said, the darkness filtering out of his eyes, returning a sense of innocence to his face. I can teach you to be better than that. I can teach you to embrace the dark. I can teach you how to get swept away by the chaos. You haven’t had a very good life because it keeps getting wrestled out of your control. So,” He paused. “What’s the point of struggling for it at all? I can teach you to live in the shadows.” He leaned further in, and Harley remained silent, mesmerized, despite her efforts to look casual. “If you’ll only follow me into the dark.” One hand shot out and tangled itself in her hair, painfully pushing her face into the bars of the holding pen. Lips smashed into hers, and she found them surprisingly soft. His tongue snaked between her teeth. Panicked, she felt herself bite down as hard as she could, and the boy let her go, crying out in pain, staggering backwards.

          “HEY!” Jim roared, bolting down the stairs. He was inside the holding pen in seconds, shaking Jerome by the collar, who was laughing hysterically. Blood was flowing from his bitten tongue and down his chin.

          “I was just having an existential conversation with my peach here,” He giggled. Jim looked down at him with disdain clearly written on his face. “Oh, my tongue? It’s alright, I like her when she plays _rough_.”

          Jim’s fist collided with the boy’s face, knocking him sideways and leaving him sprawled out on the floor. He turned to Harley and the watching cops, rage in his eyes. “Take him to the pen in the basement. He doesn’t deserve to see the sun.” Two burly cops entered the pen and took Jerome’s shoulders. Laughing too hard to be concerned with putting his feet under himself, he was content with allowing the cops to drag him.

          His laugh was crude and loud. “Mrs. Jerome Valeska!” He shouted over his shoulder before disappearing. Jim knelt beside Harley, putting a hand on her shoulder.

          “Are you alright? I should’ve known that it was Jerome. I wouldn’t have asked you to do it if I had. I’m sorry.”

          Harley wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s alright. Thanks for saving me.”

          Jim chuckled. “It looked like you saved yourself. I only came down the stairs after I heard him shout. Good thinking.”

          Harley smiled. “Thanks.”

          “I’m really sorry, I should’ve known better. I hope you’re alright.”

          “I’m fine, I promise, Jim. I think I’ll go back to the lab for a bit though, where things are less, um, exciting.”

          Jim laughed and stood, walking back to his desk. Harley smiled to herself, watching him leave. Maybe he hadn’t thought of her as helpless after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the longest chapters I've written...
> 
> I don't see Jerome as having a major part in this fic, but maybe he'll return in the next one? :)
> 
> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos and bookmarks. But most of all, thank you for reading!


	11. Dreaming of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a longer chapter, dealing with stuff at the precinct, but I just love writing dream sequences. :) The precinct just has to wait.

          As the weeks passed, Harley felt herself falling into a comfortable routine. She spent most of the day with Jim, helping out when she could, or Nygma, listening to his rants on how confusing Miss Kringle was. Harley visited Harvey after work, first in the hospital and then at his apartment, helping take care of him.

          “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t takeout?” She questioned, throwing moldy leftovers out of his fridge.

          Harvey mumbled something she couldn’t hear, and tried to stand without his crutches.

          “No, no. You either sit or use crutches.” She said, rushing to his side to support him as he began to fall over. “I still can’t believe that they didn’t notice a broken ankle until three days later.”

          “Well,” He huffed, “They were a little more concerned with the two gaping holes in my torso. Besides, you were back to work by now.”

          “I didn’t break my ankle, nor was I shot in the chest. I just bled out. And I’m thirty years younger.”

          “No way.” He paused, considering. “How old are you again?”

          “Seventeen.” Harvey whistled.

          “Jesus, I’m old.” Harley laughed.

          “I gotta get home.” She gathered her bag and coat and headed towards the door. “Eat something before tomorrow, and use your crutches.”

          “Yeah, jeez, okay. You’re worse than my ex-wife.” Harley laughed and closed the door behind her.

          She went home, walking quietly, ignoring the catcalls from garage mechanics and the come-ons from the girls of the red light district. She frowned, wondering if any of the girls calling her would be on the autopsy table within the next week. There really wasn’t a bad part of town in Gotham, because there was no good part of town. The entire city was the bad part, essentially. If there weren’t prostitutes on the corners, there were mobsters in restaurants. If there weren’t mobsters, there were muggers and murderers in the alleys, hiding behind dumpsters.

          “Mobsters, muggers, and murderers, oh my,” Harley muttered, laughing bitterly under her breath. When she got home, she fell into bed, exhausted, as she had been doing for the past two weeks. It was a pleasant kind of exhaustion, the kind that follows a busy and productive day. Not the kind that follows hours of crying. That kind of exhaustion was just… exhausting.

          She slept heavily, her nightmares of dolls replaced by haunting dreams of the red-headed boy from the precinct.

          He spoke to her in hushed, excited tones, about embracing the darkness and living in the shadows. But she could never see him. His voice was always distant. She looked around, panicked, in the hazy darkness for him, but he was never in sight. She needed to find him. She needed him to protect her. She couldn’t remember his name, so she couldn’t call for him through the fog.

          “Harley, find me,” He called. “I’m here…” His voice didn’t seem to echo, it faded softly.

          “Where?” She cried, panic rising in her throat.

          “Here,” The voice came from behind her, over her shoulder. She turned around to find only more darkness. She turned again to face where she’d been looking before, and he was there, in front of her, most of his face hidden by shadows.

          But she wasn’t afraid, as abruptly as he’d appeared. She was filled with an intense relief, and she threw her arms around his shoulders, and felt his hands lift her at the waist, holding her weightlessly above him. “Harley,” He breathed, watching her wipe tears of relief and happiness from her eyes. She reached down, tracing his face and neck with her fingers. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his cheek against her hand. She smiled, happy.

          But when he opened his eyes again, his eyes were filled with the same darkness that she’d seen at the precinct; the darkness she feared would swallow her whole, given the chance. His hands became tight and painful on her hips, and he began to laugh, grinning from ear to ear. Harley’s heart began to race, faster than when she was lost before. She could see in his eyes that now he had no intention but to hurt her.

          His laugh was so loud that it hurt her ears now, and suddenly, his arms bent drastically, almost dropping her. Then he straightened with alarming force and pushed her away, throwing her body. She sailed through the air, limp and broken as a rag doll, closing her eyes against the coming impact.

          But when she landed, the surface was soft. She sat up, and found herself in her own bed, in her own apartment. The city light streaming through her window gave her comfort. She shook her head, trying to forget the strange dream. It hadn’t felt like a nightmare; she didn’t wake up screaming or writhing or covered in sweat.

           In fact, in a way that was almost indescribable, it felt almost right.

          She sighed, turning over. _Go back to bed, Harley-girl. He won’t be bothering you anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, etc. :) And don't be scared to comment, I appreciate any compliments/criticisms/complaints. It helps me figure out where to continue the story. Thank you!


	12. Essen's Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really appreciate it!

          Harley shuffled into work, tired. The dream had kept her up and she couldn’t stop thinking of the redheaded boy. His name was Jerome, she was almost positive, but what difference did his name make? Why was she so relieved to find him in the shadows? She frowned, walking up the stairs sluggishly.

          She was already halfway up before she noticed the shouting coming from Essen’s office. Jim was sitting at his desk, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. She plopped down in Harvey’s seat. “Morning.”

          A corner of the newspaper folded down so that he could look at her. “Morning. What’s up?”

          “What’s going on in the Captain’s office?”

          Jim sighed. “You know this town is backwards when its most powerful pimp is in there, accusing the police department of not providing decent protection for his _prostitutes_.”

          Harley hesitated for a second, staring at Jim. “You mean-“

          Jim nodded. “Pietro Crespi is in there, giving Essen a what-for.” For a moment, the shouting ceased, and the door opened. Captain Essen leaned out.

          “Jim, I need you to come in here and brief Mr. Crespi on what we have so far.” He stood, and Harley caught him by the sleeve.

          “Can I come? I know a little more of the forensics than you do.” Jim shrugged, and looked at Essen, who frowned.

          “Fine, just don’t interrupt.”

          She grabbed her notebook and followed Jim into the office, surveying the room. A tall man stood and reached a hand out to Jim.

          “Jim Gordon, detective,” He said curtly, accepting the hand.

          The man, maybe forty, by Harley’s guess, smiled. “Pietro Crespi, pimp.” He chuckled. Jim didn’t seem amused. Crespi’s face became serious. There was a tense silence for a moment, and Harley moved as far away as possible, leaning against the windowsill.

          The man, as far as she was concerned, looked nothing like what one would expect of a pimp. He was tall, plainly but smartly dressed in slacks and a button down shirt. His tan face was worn with faint laugh and worry lines, and his black hair was parted and combed simply. He looked to be a simple, easygoing man.

          “Now,” Crespi said, slapping his hands lightly on his thighs. “What is to be done about my girls? How many are in your morgue now?”

          Jim’s mouth was a thin, terse line. “Seven.”

          Crespi frowned. “Seven. Seven girls I knew by name. Seven girls that were in my care. What justice shall they receive? What is the police force doing to bring these poor murdered girls justice?”

          “We’re working as fast as we can, I assure you. But this killer is very skilled at leaving no traces. We don’t have any leads so far,” He said, turning away to lean an arm against the filing cabinet.

          The Italian man’s brow furrowed, and Harley saw a flash of anger in his eyes. “You don’t have any leads whatsoever? You have no idea who’s doing this?”

          Jim stared at him coldly. “No.”

          “I’m not usually one to criticize other people’s work, but what’s the use of having a police force if they are completely incapable of solving or preventing any crimes?”

          Jim turned swiftly to face the man and stepped close to him in two long strides. “Well, if you have any suggestions, I’m all for hearing, Mr. Crespi.” The two men stared at each other, anger burning between them.

          “That’s enough!” Essen shouted, and Harley jumped, pretending to write in her notebook to avoid looking at anyone. “Harley,” Essen began again, calmly. “What do we know?”

          “Well,” She began, looking nervously between Essen and Jim. She didn’t want to look at Crespi at all. “All the victims were Petras, between ages fifteen and nineteen. The killer left no traces of skin cells or bodily fluids on any of the victims, so it’s safe to say that there was no sex or fighting involved. The stab wounds are anywhere between four and eight inches deep, and the mutilation of the bodies point to a larger knife, possibly a machete or K-BAR. And,” She stopped, daring a glance at Crespi, who looked more surprised than angry. “That’s all we have so far.”

          “Who are you?” He asked, staring at her. She cleared her throat nervously.

          “I’m just an intern.” He continued to stare at her, and she bent her head down towards her notebook again, hoping for Jim or Essen to break the silence.

          “So,” Crespi said, picking up the conversation again. “Since you can’t find any substantial evidence after a murder has been committed, why don’t you try to do something before one happens?”

          Essen’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

          “You need someone to go undercover.”

          “Mr. Crespi, the GCPD rarely sends out undercover officers, and this is a very dangerous case-“

          Jim cleared his throat. “As much as I don’t want to say this, he might be right. This might be our only chance to close this case and put this killer behind bars. He’s too careful for us to find anything after the fact, but we know who he’s after, and he always kills in one area of town. This might be our only shot.”

          Essen shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. Besides, the killer only goes after Petras, who are all under twenty. We don’t have any officers that look that young. We don’t even have anyone on staff that young, except-“ There was an abrupt pause, and out of curiosity, Harley raised her head to see what had happened.

          Every pair of eyes in the room were looking at her. The room sat in silence, in expectation. _Wait, they’re not thinking what I think they’re thinking, right?_

Harley sighed. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

         


	13. The Life of a Pimp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the irregular updates.   
> But thank you for reading! It means so much to me!

          Harley looked at Essen in disbelief. “You can’t possibly want me to go undercover as a prostitute.” Essen sighed, looking from her to Jim.

          “Harvey’s going to hate this. Harley, would you step outside and give us a moment?” She rose and walked out the door, catching Jim’s glance as she left. _I already don’t like this. They can’t ask me to do this, I’m a minor. I’d need a parent to sign off on this, and I’m not asking Mom._

_You don’t need permission for anything if you’re emancipated._ Harley sighed, sitting heavily in Harvey’s desk chair. She tried to imagine herself standing on the corner, leaning through car windows, wearing five inch heels and heavy makeup. She shook her head. _I don’t even wear eyeliner regularly._

          The door opened, and Jim strode out, obviously angry. “I’m sorry I said anything,” He muttered, sitting back down and flipping the newspaper up.

          “Does she still want me to do this?”

          Jim sighed from behind the paper. “No one wants you to. But we’ve hit a brick wall with everything else.” He rose, agitated. “I need to walk around. You need coffee or anything?”

          Harley smirked. “That’s my job.” She chuckled in light of the situation, watching Jim huff and storm away.

          Essen’s office door opened once more and Pietro Crespi slowly stepped out onto the landing. He walked towards her, and knelt at her feet. She drew her knees up to her chest, away from him, away from any possible danger or threat. To her surprise, he didn’t look offended or angry. He looked understanding.      

          “Do you know why I do what I do?” He asked quietly.

          “You’re a pimp. You send girls out to sell themselves so that you can gain from them.”

          He sighed, but didn’t seem exasperated at her. His head bowed for a moment, and she saw a glimpse of just a tired, simple man. “When I came here,” He began, looking back at her with honesty in his eyes. “I came from a dirt poor family in Florence. I saved my entire life to get to this country, and when I was able to afford passage, I came alone. Twenty two, by myself, with nothing but a few spare sets of clothes and a picture of my parents.” Harley stared at him, transfixed. What on earth did this have to do with his prostitutes, or her?

          “I began working on the docks, and rented a small apartment with a shared bathroom at the end of the hall. I’d never been so happy,” He chuckled, his voice filled with reminiscence. “But one night, there was a hammering at my door, and when I opened it, I found a woman, badly beaten, crying out for safety. A prostitute,” He said, looking at Harley. “Her customer had beaten her, refused to pay. I took her in, helped her clean up. What little food I had was offered to her. I told her that if anyone hurt her again, or refused to pay for her services, she was to tell me. And I’d make sure that he paid.” There was a pause, and he ran a hand through his hair. When he looked back at her, his gaze was serious.

          “Today, that woman is my wife. And because of the impact she made on my life, I want to help other in the same situation. I make sure that they’re safe, that they’re clothed and fed. I help them find honest jobs. Because I don’t want to profit from them, or trap them in this life.”

          Harley could only stare at him.

          “I’m not asking you to think of me as a good person. I’m asking you to help me protect my girls. Please.” She looked down at him, on his knees in front of her, his tan face taught with genuine worry. 

          “If I’m to do this,” She began shakily. “I’m putting myself in as much danger.”

          “I know, and I will do whatever I can along with the police department to keep you safe. I look at those girls as my daughters. I grieve whenever I hear that another has been murdered.” He sighed. “I knew them all by name.”

          Captain Essen leaned out of her office, surveying the scene unfolding outside. “Harley…” She trailed off, confused. “Could you come in here?”

          Crespi rose and helped her to her feet, and he shook her hand before he turned away. “Please just consider it.” She nodded wordlessly, and made her way into Essen’s office.

          “I’ll be straight with you,” Essen began, leaning stiffly against her desk. “I really don’t want to do this. You’re very good at your job, and you’ve proven yourself many times over. I know that if I ask you to help with this, Harvey will throw a fit.”

          “Yeah,” Harley said, trying to imagine his reaction.

          “But we have a killer out there that’s causing hysteria on the streets, and we’ve got to bring someone in, and quick. I’m afraid I’ve been backed against a wall. It’s up to you, and if you say yes, we’re going to go ahead with it.”

          Harley pursed her lips. “If I do this, I want your word that everything will be done to make sure that I come out of this alive. I know that there’s a chance that I won’t, but I want to know going in that every precaution is being taken.”

          “I promise. We owe you that much, what you’re doing for us, the precinct and the city as a whole.” Essen didn’t hesitate, and Harley found a small sense of relief in it.

          “And one more thing.”

          “Yeah?”

          “Afterwards, I don’t want it to be a big deal. I don’t want to be in the newspaper or anything.”

          Essen smiled. “It’s hard to keep anything quiet in this town, but I’ll do my best. So will you do it?”

          Harley sighed. “Will I pretend to be a prostitute so that I can lure a serial killer closer to me in order to save the lives of fellow prostitutes? Against my better judgment, yes, I will.”


	14. Trusting

          She shuffled into work the next morning, tired. She had gone home and worried about what she’d gotten herself into. She considered calling Essen and telling her she’d changed her mind, but something seemed to keep her from it. She felt more content than she had in a while. She felt like she had made the right choice, despite the dangers. She was helping people, even if these people were girls who sold themselves for money.

          Harley was finding it harder and harder to look down on them, despite herself. She’d never admit it, but Crespi’s speech had made something budge inside her, blurred the line even further between right and wrong. These girls were doing what they could to survive. They didn’t deserve to die for it.

          She walked into the lab, dropping her bag behind Nygma’s desk. She looked around, but didn’t see him. She peeked into the hall, seeing Essen talking to him in hushed tones. His eyes widened, mouth open slightly. His beloved question-mark coffee cup fell from his limp hand, and shattered on the floor.      

          Essen straightened suddenly, said a few more words, and turned on her heel, walking back to her office. Harley hurried into the hall to help him pick up the shards of broken ceramic. “I’ll get you a new one for Christmas,” She smiled, turning into the janitors’ closet for some paper towels for the coffee.

          “You…” Nygma trailed off, his voice soft and confused. “You’re risking your life.”

          “So Captain Essen told you.”

          “Yes,” He looked at her with large, childish eyes. “Why are you risking your life?”

          “Because I want to help people in any way that I can. I’ll be saving lives, or so they tell me.”

          Nygma picked up the last shard, turning it over to find the question mark still intact on the surface. His eyes were downcast as he spoke. “I don’t want you to.”

          Harley reached out, taking his chin in one hand and tilting his face up to hers. “I knew you wouldn’t, and Harvey won’t either. But the GCPD will be taking every precaution. I’ll be fine.”

          He looked at her, worry written across his face. “I hope so.” She helped him up, and they took the mug pieces back to the lab. He wistfully tossed every shard into the trashcan, stopping at the last one, glancing at the black question mark. He sighed set it on his desk. He turned back to Harley, and enveloped her, wrapping his long arms around her, holding tight. She sighed into the fabric of his lab coat, and hugged back. Harley considered for a moment that he might rely on her as much as she relied on him.

          “It will be fine.”

          “You promise?” Harley thought for a moment of Harvey, lying in his hospital bed, unresponsive, amid wires and tubes and broken promises.

          “I can’t promise, but you’ll have to trust me.” His breath came out shaky, and his thin body shuddered around her. When he spoke again, his voice was that of a frightened child.

          “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think about how odd some of Harley and Ed's interactions would sound if read out of context. For example: “'I can’t promise, but you’ll have to trust me.' His breath came out shaky, and his thin body shuddered around her."
> 
> I find it amusing. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting and everything! I'm so thankful for the support.


	15. Moving Up

          “Oh, I almost forgot,” Ed stepped away hurriedly, and turned back to his desk, avoiding her gaze. She knew what he was doing, she’d done it so many times before. Forcing emotions down below the mask of professionalism. “Captain Essen wants to see you in her office.” She stood, and before she was out of earshot, she heard him murmur, “You’ll be spending a lot more time up there, I guess.”

          She opened the door and had just enough time to catch the objects that were tossed at her. A pair of black stiletto heels. She glanced up, and Pietro Crespi laughed. “What the hell are these for?”

          “Training. If you think we’re sending you out there the way you are now, you’re sorely mistaken. You need to learn to walk and run in those.”

          Captain Essen sighed from behind her desk chair. “Mr. Crespi has agreed to help train you for this assignment.”

          “That means no more man pants.”

          Harley scowled. “These are dress slacks, thank you.”

          “Still, you don’t look feminine, or easy.”

          “You know I’m not actually selling sex, right?” She retorted.

          “Yes, but you’re to look and act like you are,” His voice was patient, and it made Harley’s blood boil. “No more pants. And when was the last time you wore heels?”

          Harley was a little embarrassed at how long it took to remember. “My last homecoming, I think. A year ago.”

          Crespi sighed. “At least we’re starting early.” He pointed to the heels. “Those shoes are your new best friends.” He left, and Harley turned towards Essen.

          “I’m this close to quitting.”

          Essen’s eyes rolled towards the ceiling pleadingly. “I know he’s frustrating. But he’s right. We’re hoping to get this over with within the next two weeks.” She glanced at the tall shoes. “Good luck with those. I don’t know if I could walk in them either.”

          Harley huffed, and made her way back to the lab. Thankfully, the room was empty; Edward was probably off confessing his love for Kristen or something. She hopped onto the table, and put the heels on, glaring. She slid slowly back onto her feet, like a fawn on new legs. It really had been a long time, she thought guiltily. But these were a lot taller than they needed to be, so Harley had an excuse. She did enjoy being four inches taller, though.

          And it was now, when she was staggering around, holding onto filing cabinets for support, that Edward decided to stride in, a stack of files in his arms.

          “I brought the Petras’ files back once more, just so we can look over them again- _What are those?_ ”

          Harley glared. “I can’t be a prostitute and wear flats, apparently.”

          Edward’s face twitched for a moment, confused. “Ah. Do you want to look over the files for, uh, research?”

          Harley frowned. “Actually, all I really want to do right now is relearn how to walk.”

          “Oh, okay.” Edward sat down behind his desk again, still for a moment, and then began to polish his glasses. “If there’s anything you need…” He mumbled.

          Harley began to pace, glancing at him when he wasn’t looking. She made him uncomfortable now, and this worried her. Was it because she accepted this assignment? Maybe it made him view her differently now. In his eyes, she wasn’t an equal anymore, she’d stepped up. And now she wasn’t a member of the forensics team, she was something else. She wasn’t a partner, working alongside him to solve the microscopic mysteries left on bodies and evidence. She had moved up to the detective’s landing, with Essen and Jim, and now she was someone to be assisted, to be helped. And by becoming that, he was worried that he’d lost his friend because she was now above him.

          She ran a hand through her hair, pacing shakily in her new shoes. “Edward?”

          His head shot up, eager to help, and something in Harley’s stomach twisted at how quickly he began to view her differently. “Will you tell me a riddle?”

          His eyes lit up, and a small bashful smile crept across his face. The knot in Harley’s stomach diminished considerably. He thought for a moment, trying to find one he hadn’t already told her. “Two bodies I have, though conjoined as one. The more I stand still, the quicker I run. What am I?”

          Harley tapped one heel, considering. “An hourglass?”

          Nygma grinned. “You’re the best one here at riddles. Well, other than me.”

          Harley laughed. “Other than you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely satisfied with myself for the vague "What are thoooooose?!" reference. :)
> 
> This whole "training Harley to be a hooker" will be interesting. And Harvey still hasn't found out haha.


	16. Tripped Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the irregular updates. I'm still trying to get used to a new schedule.

          Every morning Pietro Crespi was at the precinct, to give her another homework assignment. Essen, tired of having him in her office, gave them an interrogation room to work out of when he stayed to lecture Harley on how to walk or light a cigarette. He threw copies of _Cosmopolitan_ at her, telling her to see the emphasis the world put on sex.

          “As a woman in this world,” He said once, his voice low. “Your greatest weapon is yourself. You don’t even have to sell yourself to get what you’re after. Just look at you. You’re only pretending to be a whore, and you’re helping to catch a serial killer. Sex is your greatest weapon.” She felt chills run down her spine, and his words echoed in her head. A weapon.

          Crespi drove her crazy sometimes, with his brash statements backed up by logical reasoning. Most men would be uncomfortable discussing a sexual transformation with a seventeen year old girl, but it was, after all, his job. He was always soft-spoken and semi-rude to her, but she could tell that all his banter was to achieve a certain goal. So she began to try and cooperate with him.

          And it wasn’t until she sprinted to catch a bus in her four inch heels that she began to notice a change. She learned that the officers would open doors for her if she smiled at them. Kristen Kringle seemed to be more irritated with her as of late, throwing glares across the bullpen, possibly because fewer and fewer policemen found excuses to visit the records annex when the pretty intern was out and about, helping detectives and bending over to pick up dropped files.

          She liked the attention somewhat, but felt that she was playing a part. Nygma seemed to be the only one immune to her new appearance, and for that she was thankful. Harvey still hadn’t returned, and she had avoided visiting the past week or so, not wanting to tell him. She doubted he’d take it well, knowing that he viewed her as an odd sort of daughter. He wouldn’t like her being sexualized by the police department, much less putting her life in danger.

          She was heading up the stairs to visit Jim, passing Kringle, who glared. _What is that woman’s problem?_ Before she could respond, Kristen’s foot jutted out in front of her, catching her shoe as she began to step forward. Harley yelped in surprise, and in the split second of falling, she could see herself splayed ungracefully out on the floor, Kristen laughing smugly above her.

          But when her cheek and outstretched hands hit something, it wasn’t the cold linoleum of the precinct floor, it was warm cotton. Warm, _breathing_ , cotton. Strong arms caught and enveloped her, and her gasp of surprise brought the most wonderful smell to her nose. She looked up into honey-brown eyes, smiling down at her.

          “Looks like we’ve run into each other again, Miss Quinn.” Harvey Dent laughed, with no intention of ending their abrupt embrace. “Quite literally.”

          As much as Harley wanted to run her fingers down the soft fabric of his shirt and breathe in the wonderful- no, _delicious-_ scent of the assistant district attorney, she got her feet underneath herself, and stood, straightening her blouse. “Thank you, Mr. Dent, for catching me,” She chuckled nervously. “And by the way, it’s Quinzel.”

          She turned to Kringle, who stood frozen, apparently unsatisfied that a very attractive public servant had foiled her plan to trip Harley. “Are you alright?” Harley’s voice was sweet. “I tripped hard on your foot. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

          Kristen flushed a deep red. “No,” She mumbled, glaring. “I’m fine.” She turned on her heel and stomped angrily down the stairs.

          “She tripped you,” Dent said, smiling cheekily. “And you’re apologizing?”

          Harley smiled. “Kindness. It drives her crazy. And the fact that I fell on you and not the floor makes her even angrier.”

          Dent raised an eyebrow. “You’d make one hell of a lawyer. I’d hate for you to be that kind to me.”

          _He’s still the flirt, isn’t he?_

          “I like your, uh, shoes.” Dent said, filling the silence left by Harley’s thoughts. “They make you as tall as me.”

          “I like to look people in the eye.” She stood tall. “Makes me feel important.” She smirked, knowing it exaggerated the plum color of her lips.

          “With all the eyes on you in here,” He said, looking around. “You must be.”

          Harley raised her eyebrows. “Are you calling me pretty?”

          Dent blushed slightly but didn’t break eye contact, and Harley counted the conversation as a victory. “I’m calling you beautiful.”

          She began to walk past so he couldn’t see her grin. “Always a pleasure, Mr. Dent, but I have work to do.”

          He turned to watch her walk away. The more effort put in, the more rewarding the results. “Until then, Miss Quinn.”

          “It’s Quinzel,” She called over her shoulder. He grinned.

          “Miss Quinzel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to bring Harvey Dent back for another chapter. I may or may not have a crush on his beautiful face. 
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos! This story has more kudos now than the one before it!


	17. Missing Jonathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos! I love getting little email notifications for them. It brightens my day. :)

She was so busy working with Crespi and helping Nygma with new bodies that she hardly noticed when her nightmares of dolls had almost entirely ceased, replaced with puzzling dreams about the boy from the holding pen, Jerome. And when those dreams faded, her sleep was heavy and black, the sleep of the wonderfully exhausted. Harley began to think of herself in a state of reconstruction yet again, as she had been after her father’s death and after Jonathan’s admittance to Arkham.

          She frowned, laying on the autopsy table and staring at the ceiling above. “What’s wrong?” Nygma looked up from his counter, wearing goggles over his glasses, holding kitchen knives in his hands. He’d inexplicably dragged four watermelons into his lab today, and seemed too busy to explain.

          “I’m happy…” She trailed off, sighing. “But I’m not.”

          “Why’s that?”

          “Well, I like my work, Harvey’s getting better and is almost ready to come back, and I haven’t had a nightmare in I don’t know how long.”

          “So why are you unhappy?” Nygma turned back to his counter and began to slash violently at a watermelon.

          “ _What are you doing?_ ”

          “Testing different knives to see if we could identify what knife slit the throats of your fellow Petras.”

          “I’m not a Petra.”

          “Yet,” Nygma snickered.

          “You’re lucky I’m too far away to punch you.”

          “Oh, yes, punch the person holding all the knives.”

          “Like you’d stab anyone.”

          “So why are you unhappy?”

          “I miss Jonathan.”

          There was a moment’s pause, and when Nygma spoke, it was thick with hesitation. “Is that your boyfriend? I doubt he’s happy with your current assignment.”

          “No, he was one of my only friends in high school.”

          “You didn’t have many friends?”

          “I was a valedictorian and the child of a serial killer; take a guess.”

          “So why do you miss him?”

          “He’s not really there anymore.”

          “Where’d he go?”

          “He’s insane.” There was a heavy pause, and Harley heard the crisp sound of another watermelon being slashed. “He was admitted to Arkham last year.”

          “Oh,” Nygma’s voice was soft, not knowing what to say.

          “Yeah, there was irreversible damage done to his brain. His father created this… toxin that caused the brain to hallucinate and react in intense terror. Thought he could cure fear.”

          “Crane. Right?”

          “Yes, how’d you know?”

          “I was on the case. Dr. Crane’s paper about the toxin mentioned a second test subject. I can only assume now that the second subject is your friend.”

          Harley felt tears sting her eyes. “Yes, it’s likely. I’ve gone a few times and visited him.”

          Nygma turned to look at her, cocking his head, trying to understand her emotions. “And you haven’t visited him in a while, that’s why you miss him?”

          “Partially. And, as I said, he’s not really there anymore. He doesn’t recognize me most of the time. He’s constantly terrified, of me and of the hallucinations. I can only imagine what his mind turns me into to be that afraid of me. I was the only person he was ever comfortable with.”

          Nygma avoided her eyes, and turned back to his counter. His shoulders were tense, and his hand shook as he picked up another knife. “I don’t really need any help here; why don’t you go see if Detective Gordon needs anything?”

          “Nygma-“  
          “Go.”

          Harley stared at him, taken aback. He’d never sent her away before. She’d sat around in his lab so many times before while he worked, and he rarely needed her help. She stood, hurt and offended, and walked out without a word.

          And as she walked down the hall, she could hear him talking to himself in hushed tones, as he often did. There was silence for a moment, followed by the sound of a watermelon being broken and a grunt of anger. She continued, trying not to care that he was obviously upset about something, before hearing her name. She stopped, listening. And for a moment, it sounded like he was speaking in different voices, creating a conversation between two mentalities. One voice was his own, and another was one she’d never heard before. Low, growling, almost possessive. Nygma’s voice rose frantically, and the growl became more fierce in response. Her stomach turned in worry. Something was wrong.

          He was arguing with himself. Something was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to being Jonathan back again, hopefully as a principal character. I love baby Jonathan. 
> 
> Aaaand, I'm hoping to put Nygma in a new light in the next few chapters. Because he's not always as cute and innocent as it seems. >:)


	18. She Can't Know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Okimi, because the entire chapter is from Nygma's point of view. I thought she'd like it. :)

          Nygma sunk to the floor, leaning against the counter. Both hands were clasped tightly over his mouth, trying to keep the voice from coming out. Someone might hear. He breathed hard through his nose, grunting and whimpering from the effort. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but more and more the voice crept up on him, and every time it became harder to hide.

          He dared take his hands away, trying to breathe steadily and calm down. “What’s-,” He gasped. “What’s wrong with me?”

          “You’re off your rocker, that’s what,” He growled, and the voice leaving his mouth didn’t sound anything like his. His hands shot back to his mouth, clasping painfully, tears burning his eyes.

          It started after he’d left a hint for Kristen, and now every time he got upset, he began to talk rapidly, as he often did. But he was having a conversation with a part of himself that he couldn’t control, a part unreachable unless he was angry or scared about something.

          But this wasn’t something diagnosable. He wasn’t a religious man, and was quick to dismiss the idea that he was possessed. If he were possessed, he’d be crawling up walls and projectile vomiting on things, right? Nygma shook his head. No, that wasn’t it. Couldn’t be it. And this wasn’t another personality. Dual personalities weren’t aware of each other, let alone conversation partners.

          Nygma lowered his hands again, staring at the pieces of the watermelon that he’d crushed in his frustration. Suddenly, against his will, his head shot up, alert. “Why do you feel bad? It’s none of her business.” The voice shot out of his mouth, and he whimpered.

          Nygma stared sadly at the door. “But I can help her. I can. And I’ll let it slip eventually.”

          “She doesn’t need to know!”

          “Stop talking like that! She’s my friend!” His hands flew to his face, trying to block out the voice within.  
          “And do you think she’ll still be your friend once she knows that you synthesized an antidote?”

          Nygma choked. “W-what do you mean?”

          “You made the antidote that can fix her friend-“

          “I did it in case the serum was weaponized.”

          “No, you didn’t! You wanted the puzzle.”

          “What does it matter?” He shouted. The voice was relentless.

          “When her friend is alright, what do you think happens to you?”

          “She’ll be thankful.”

          “She might be for a while, but then she’ll forget you.”

          “No, she won’t,” Nygma whispered, tears stinging his eyes. “She won’t.”

          “Are you stupid?” He spat at himself. “She already is! Moving upstairs, helping with assignments. You’re already becoming irrelevant to your only friend! Why would you help replace yourself, you idiot?” He drove the heel of his hand into his forehead, making his vision swim.

          “I’m not stupid, I’m not. I’m not stupid. I’m not stupid.”

          “Face it. You can’t let her know that you can help. She’ll forget about you.”

          Tears stung his eyes, and he was too out of control to stop them from falling. “She won’t forget about me.”

          “She won’t if she doesn’t know that her friend has a chance.”

          “But that’s not right to her friend, either!”

          “Since when were you, a murderer, concerned with right and wrong?”

          Edward sniffled, unable to think of a response.

          “You can’t let her know.”

          He opened his mouth, breathing shallowly, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I… I can’t let her know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos!


	19. Cutting Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little short chapter. :) 
> 
> Thanks for all the support!

          Harley pulled the heavy precinct doors open, frowning. Why was Nygma so upset yesterday? He didn’t seem upset until they’d started talking about Jonathan. But why? He didn’t know Jonathan. She recalled the way he’d stiffened when he asked if Jonathan were her boyfriend.

          _Was he… jealous?_

          She was too lost in thought to see someone approaching as she turned into the dim hallway leading to Nygma’s lab. She was hurled painfully against the wall, a heavy arm pinned across her collarbone.

          “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harvey said. It wasn’t a growl, as his voice usually was, and when she looked into his eyes, his gaze was pleading. Harley felt her stomach flip. So he’d found out.  And he was worried about her.

          “Welcome back,” She swallowed. “We missed you.”

          “What do you think you’re doing?”His face contorted in frustration more than anger as he spoke.

          “I’m helping.”

          “You can’t. You could die.”

          “I almost died last time,” She said, trying to sound nonchalant. She was responsible for herself, and she was a little offended how he assumed that she didn’t know the risks.

          His face flushed red, and his voice was attacking. “I know! I watched you slip in and out of consciousness while you bled out. But now you’re just deliberately putting yourself in danger.”

          Harley sighed. “I’m the only one that can do this.”

          “But you can’t! You’re just a kid!” Harvey was near shouting now, earning suspicious glances from passing officers.

          “Harvey…”

          “Don’t ‘Harvey’ me! You’re not my ex-wife!”

          “ _And you’re not my father!_ ” She shouted, glaring. He had no right to challenge her participation in this, especially so late in the game.

          Harvey looked taken aback, and noticeably wounded. Harley’s stomach twisted, but she continued glaring.

          “Fine,” Harvey said, his face impassive. He looked pointedly at her, and Harley struggled to hold his gaze. “Just don’t expect anyone to sweep in and save you.”

          “I’m not,” She said, quietly, and turned into Nygma’s lab. “I’m expecting to save myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me sad, but I really don't want Harley to be completely under Harvey's thumb. She needs to be independent. And, as we know, Harvey ends up to be a real loner anyway.


	20. The Day After Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter twenty? Whaaaaat? We're nearing the climax, but we've got at least five more chapters, by my guess. Two of which I've already written and I'M SO EXCITED TO PUBLISH.
> 
> As always, thank you for all your endless support!

She stomped into the lab and surveyed Nygma, typing furiously on his laptop, glasses sliding slowly down his nose.

          “I heard shouting,” He reported, not once looking away from the screen, nor altering the speed of clacking keys.

          “How observant of you.” Harley rolled her eyes.

          “Also, what do you want for your birthday?” She stopped in her tracks at the curious question, and turned around to face him. He looked at her over his shoulder, cocking his head strangely in order to look through his slipping glasses. “It’s in a week, you know.” He turned back to his computer and continued typing. Harley was taken aback, not sure if she was more surprised that Nygma knew her birthday, or that he remembered before she did.

          “How do you know my birthday?”

          “I looked it up in your file,” He said casually, not glancing back. Harley stared at him. He turned around, bothered by the silence. “It’s what friends do. Celebrate birthdays.” He paused. “Right?”

          Harley laughed. “Only good friends.” Nygma grinned.

          “So what do you want?”

          “Hmm. World peace?”

          “Why? We’d be out of a job.” He chuckled.

          “I haven’t a clue. Surprise me.” Nygma frowned. Before he could say anything, there was a knock on the door. Essen poked her head in.

          “Crespi’s here to see you. And Harley?”

          “Yeah?”

          “We’re sending you out the day after tomorrow.” Harley nearly sprinted out the door after Essen.

          “What?”  
          “The tenth victim just came in. The press is having a field day. We can’t wait any longer. Crespi’s here to prep you on what we’re planning.”

          Harley swallowed a knot in her throat. “Okay.” She took the stairs up two at a time, entering the interrogation room in long strides.

          Pietro Crespi sat patiently in his usual seat, a manila file sitting on the table. “Good morning, Miss Quinzel.”

          “Morning. They’re sending me out in two days?”

          For once, Crespi’s answer was short and to the point. “Yes.”

          Harley pursed her lips. “Well, we don’t have any time to waste, do we? What’s the plan?”

          “You’re going to come downtown with me, and you’re going to meet some of the girls. They’ll fix you up, make sure that you look the part. You’ll be sent out in the area where most of the victims were murdered, and you’ll be the only one there. If he’s going to be in the same place and go after a Petra, he’ll be going after you and you alone.” Harley bit her lip.

          She sat down. “How am I supposed to protect myself?”

          “I know from speaking to Detective Gordon that you have some basic fighting skills and good instincts. I heard what you did to the boy in the holding pen a few weeks ago,” He chuckled. “How saucy.” She glared, and his smile quickly disappeared. “I don’t know what they’ll give you to defend yourself. You’ll also be wearing a wire, I assume. There will be a team of officers a block away to help apprehend the killer.”

          Harley sighed.

          “You can do this.” She looked up, and Crespi was looking at her, his gaze a calm but intense fire, pushing her.

          “Can I?” Her brow furrowed in worry, and she ran a hand through her hair.

          “Yes.”

          “I could die.”

          “You could. To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

          Harley scowled at him.

          Crespi smiled comfortingly, and a part of Harley’s heart softened for the man. “I don’t think you’ll die. You’re much to practical for that. And they love you too much here. They won’t let anything happen to you. And if it means anything to you, I am infinitely grateful that you’re helping us. You didn’t have to.” He stood, placing a warm hand on her head, like a grandfather might.

          “Also, you were assigned a sort of code name, and I got to pick.”      “Why would you get to pick?”

          “Because.” Crespi smirked, and opened the door to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

          “Wait!” She called after him, and he turned and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, what is it?”

          “The Harlequin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Harlequin. *wink wink nudge nudge* There's actually a reason behind it, not just the fact that her name is Harley Quinn.
> 
> Also, "To die will be an awfully big adventure" is a quote from Peter Pan.


	21. Dolled Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support! Somehow, this little idea turned out to be longer than the first fic. 
> 
> I have no idea where I'll be going after this, though. I might stop for the duration of season two, because I have no idea how to tie Harley in after season two airs. Fics are weird.

“So why ‘The Harlequin’?” Harley asked, shoving her cold hands into her coat pockets as they walked down the snow covered sidewalks. She’d gotten used to the feeling of the late winter air on her nearly bare legs, but she couldn’t bear having cold hands.

          “Commedia dell'arte,” Crespi said, his Italian accent more prominent than usual.

          “What?”

          “A traditional Italian theater, using stock, or clichéd, characters. The Harlequin is a romantic character, usually a servant working to thwart the plans of their master.”

          “And what does that have to do with me?”

          Crespi sighed. “Because a prostitute betraying her client is like a servant thwarting the plans of her master,” He said, his face breaking into a grin. “And because it sounds a lot like your name.”

          Harley considered. “A little.” She blew a hot breath into her cold hands. “So we’re going where, exactly?”

          “Above a deli, I own a flat with a few rooms for the girls. It gives them a place to get ready, prepare food, and get some sleep if they need it. I have a few waiting for you, and they’ll help you get dolled up.” Harley winced inwardly at the mention of dolls. “Oh, and I was supposed to give this to you.” He dug in his pocket. “It’s from the department, for you to notify the officers if you need assistance.”

          Harley stared at the item placed in her hand. “This is a Life Alert badge.”

          “They told me it was a signaling unit. You press that button, and they know where you are and will be with you in a moment.”

          “It’s a Life Alert badge.”

          “Well, sorry, Agent Bond, that Q doesn’t have a fancier gadget for you.”

          She rolled her eyes. “And what if my throat gets slit before I have a chance to press it?”

          “Keep your hand in your pocket, on the button at all times. It won’t look suspicious. Most girls carry pepper spray in their pockets if they need it.”

          “I have that too.”

          Crespi smiled, and put an arm around her comfortingly. “Then you have nothing to worry about, then.” He led her into an inviting-looking deli and before she could look around, he motioned her through a back hallway and up a flight of stairs.

          The Petras’ flat was buzzing with activity, and Harley guessed this was what dressing rooms on Broadway might look like on opening night. Women- no, girls, girls likely her age- were scuttling around, applying makeup and trading clothes, complaining about cold weather or inexperienced clients. A few took notice of her and stood.

          “Is this her, Mr. Crespi?” One asked, eyes full of hope, taking Harley’s hand. “Is this her?”

          “Yes,” He smiled, nudging Harley forward slightly. “She’s here to help you, but first she needs your assistance in prepping.”

          She was suddenly being pulled gently away, and Harley panicked for a moment, not wanting to be separated from Crespi, the only familiar thing she had. “Wait!”

          He turned at the door. “Yes?”

          “What-“ She stuttered, her stomach turning at a new worry. “What if I’m approached for…”

          “Sex?” Crespi looked amused. “Then politely decline. Did you think my girls had to accept every man that came to them?”He saw the worry in her eyes, and crossed the room in three long strides. His hands turned her face up to his, and he kissed her forehead. “Thank you,” He whispered, voice breaking slightly, too low for the Petras to hear. “You’re saving what is dearest to me.”

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a little research on the Harlequin stock character in prep for this, and because I'm a huge theater nerd. Fun fact: The Harlequin character was integrated from Italian theater into British theater and was often paired with the character Clown. (Sound familiar? ;) ) Remnants of this pairing is still a little obvious in British culture, like Punch and Judy, which also has other ties to stock characters in Commedia dell'arte. 
> 
> Okay, theater lesson over. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)


	22. More Than A Few Prostitutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, after this one we really get going. :) And I'm so excited!

          “You’re the Harlequin?” One girl stared down at her, wide-eyed.

          “Um,” Harley licked her lips. “I guess so. You can call me Harley.”

          “I’m Nicki.” The girl extended a heavily manicured hand. “How old are you?”

          “Almost eighteen.” Nicki smiled.

          “You’re not the oldest one here, then.” Harley chuckled nervously. Sitting in a rickety chair surrounded by makeup and underage prostitutes wasn’t how she usually spent her Saturday nights.

          “Well, let’s get you all done up.” Four more girls surrounded her, staring in awe.

          “You’re the one Mr. Crespi’s been talking about?”

          “You’re young.”

          “Are you a spy?” A young-looking blonde girl asked, and Nicki slapped her lightly on the shoulder, laughing.

          “Of course she’s not a spy. She’s a police officer that works at the GCPD, right?” Five pairs of eyes stared down at her.

          “Well,” She chuckled nervously. “I’m not a police officer. I’m an intern.”

          The blonde girl’s brow furrowed. “So what do you do?”

          “Normally, I help with forensics, taking fingerprints, assisting with autopsies, stuff like that.”

          Nicki frowned. “So we’re not the first Petras you’ve seen, then.”

          Harley sighed. “Unfortunately, no.” The blonde girl’s eyes filled with tears.

          “I’ll be right back,” she said, rushing out of the room.

          A girl with red fingernails sighed and sat on the makeup counter, fishing through a bag. “Give Ellie a minute.” She looked up at Harley with pity in her eyes. “Her sister was found a few weeks ago.”

          Harley was at a loss. “Oh,” She said stupidly, wondering if she’d helped with the body. “I see.”

          The girl looked back down, fingernails clicking against the plastic containers. “Yeah, you know how it is with twins. They’re twice as close as normal siblings.” She sighed. “Well, let’s not be so dark. You’re our guest here, and we’re responsible for making you look pretty.” She held up a palette of eye shadow next to Harley’s face.

          “Is this good, or should we go darker?” Nicki stared, chewing a thumb in consideration.

          “Use the darkest purple. It’ll bring out her eyes.” She looked at Harley and smiled. “You have pretty eyes. Very green.”

          Harley nodded thanks, and closed her eyes for the girl with red fingernails. “My name’s Ashley. Ashley Halsey. My names are anagrams of each other.

          Harley smiled, thinking how Nygma would love that. “My name is Harley.” Fingertips softly touched her eyelids, sweeping color across.

          Ashley stood back, examining her work. “That’s better,” she turned, rummaging through the makeup bag. “Now,” She said, turning back, hold up an eyelash curler. “Tell us all about that Detective Gordon.”

          “What?” Harley sputtered, surprised at the odd request.

          “He’s delicious.” Nicki said, applying her own makeup beside them. “I’d watch the news more if he was on it more often.”

          “He’s quite nice to look at.” Ashley admitted, shrugging. “So what’s he like?”

          “He’s, um, shorter in person. I’m taller than him when I wear heels.” Harley laughed. “It kinda pisses him off.”

          Nicki laughed, loud and brash, and Harley found comfort in it. Then a cry from another room, and Ashley frowned. “You woke her up.”

          Nicki sighed. “It’s okay, I was going to tell her goodbye soon anyway.” She left and returned with a small girl in her arms, maybe three years old. “This is Jarrah,” She said to Harley, cuddling the baby against her. “And she’s mine.” Nicki set the little girl down, and she immediately toddled over to Harley.

          “Well, hi.” Harley smiled down at her, and the girl smiled back with two teeth. “I’m Harley.”

          The girl met her eyes immediately, her large eyes studying her for a long moment. Harley stared back, confused. Then Jarrah smiled again, and poked Harley’s crossed knee. “Har’quin,” She said matter-of-factly. Harley’s eyes widened, and Nicki laughed.

          “She heard Crespi speaking of you. You’ve become a bit of a legend here.” Jarrah smiled, then her small face became serious for a moment. She lifted her arm, and took Harley’s chin in her grubby fingers, the way an adult would do to a child.

          “You go to protect my mommy?”

          Harley’s eyes filled with tears, looking back from the child to Nicki to Ashley. All faces were grave, and waiting. “Yes,” She said, her voice thick. “Yes, I am.”


	23. Hey Butch

          There wasn’t much talk after that, the seriousness of the situation slowly sinking into all in the flat, including little Jarrah. They helped pick out clothes for Harley; a low cut shirt, mini skirt, and a red pea coat to keep warm. It took a few minutes for Ashley and Nicki to completely sell the idea of the black and red checked tights. “You can leave your other things here,” Nicki said, eyes on the floor. “And get them when you come back.”

          Harley waited for her to look up, and when she did, both knew that it was very possible that one of them might not be returning tonight.

          “You know what I just realized?” Harley said, pulling on her coat and slipping the “signaling unit” into her pocket.

          “What?”

          She met Nicki’s eyes. “I’m ill-prepared for this. The department didn’t lift a finger to help me. Only Crespi did.” Nicki frowned.

          “But they trust you enough to do this anyway. They might know you better than you do.”

          “Or they want a martyr.”She heard her worry in her own voice. Nicki shrugged.

          “Maybe. I don’t know. Come here.” She took Harley’s hands in hers and bowed her head. When she began speaking, it took a moment for Harley to realize that she wasn’t speaking to her, but praying. “Please protect us while we go out tonight, and help Harley do her job. Please keep her calm and steady. Thank you for bringing her to us.”

          Nicki let go of Harley’s hands and raised her head. She smiled. “You’re confused. How can a prostitute be religious?”

          At a loss for words, Harley nodded. Nicki nodded, understanding.“Jesus spent more time with prostitutes than with religious leaders because prostitutes know that they’ve been leveled. We don’t pride ourselves on anything. And I’m working to get out of this place, to build a better life for my daughter and me. I just ask for help.”

          For a moment, Harley stared, floored. This was a girl barely older than her, showing maternal wisdom and clarity. Nicki hugged her. “Sorry if I bashed you over the head. It wasn’t my intention.”

          “No, you didn’t. It makes me feel a little better, actually.”

          “I’m glad.” She smiled. “It’s about time for you to go, so we have one more thing to do.” She took Harley’s wrist and held it out, picking up a bottle of liquid eyeliner with the other. “You should get a text with where you’ll be standing.” Gently and wordlessly, she painted three small dots on Harley’s wrist in the shape of a triangle.

          “You’re one of us now, so you better visit.”

          Harley smiled. “I will.” She headed down the stairs and out of the deli, waiting for a message to tell her where to go. It was only a few blocks before she felt the vibration in her pocket, and reached in to pull out her phone. She was reading the message when she ran into something face first.

          “Watch where you’re going, miss!” The man yelled, stepping away. Harley rubbed at her eyes for a moment, then opened them.

          The man standing before her was someone that she felt she knew quite better than she actually did. A man that had walked beside her for protection in the dark, a man that had waved at her as she walked home, a man that always seemed happy to see her for no reason at all.

          And this man was no staring at her, taken aback, focusing mainly on the false tattoo revealed on her wrist. His face contorted into something like worry or shock, and his mouth opened and closed without sound.

          Harley smiled however, happy to see a somewhat familiar face. “Hey, Butch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support! :)


	24. The Girl in Danger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write. A change of perspective is always fun.

Butch sat at the bar and sighed, looking into the tumbler of whiskey he’d just poured for himself. He knew that he should be opening up the club soon, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. He wasn’t really sure why it bothered him so much, that the girl was out on the streets now. He didn’t even know her name. But he’d watched from his bouncer’s chair for months, making sure that she walked by safe and undisturbed. They didn’t talk much the one night he walked her home, and he felt guilty for not offering more. He’d admired her from afar without really knowing why, and he was even more impressed when she’d come in with Gordon and Bullock, putting the fear of God into little Penguin, for some unknown reason. But he didn’t ask questions, wasn’t his place.

          There was a certain goodness to her that he’d seen, the same that he’d noticed in Jim Gordon, but her light was brighter, more resilient. He sipped at his drink, bothered. And now, there wasn’t any more goodness in her. How could there be? She was walking the streets now, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be worried about her. She wasn’t his kid. She wasn’t anyone’s kid, from the way she’d spoken, which made him worry all the more. She lived alone, in a terrible part of town.

          She was a Petra now, which was usually a good thing, but now there was that killer out there, cutting them down where they stood. One was found in an alley a block from the club.

          He just didn’t understand why he cared about her. She hadn’t done anything for him, had hardly even spoken to him. But she had thanked him for walking her home, and her eyes were kind. That’s all that he really had to go on for her. He never asked her name. Butch downed the rest of his drink bitterly. And now he’d likely never see her again.

          “Why aren’t we open?” He heard a voice call, and Cobblepot hobbled out, brows furrowed in anger and frustration. “It’s nine thirty.”

          Butch frowned. “Sorry, boss. I just can’t stop thinking about that girl.”He looked down at the little man, still shorter even when Butch was sitting. He really did look like a penguin, but Butch knew he never liked to be called that.

          Penguin scoffed. “What girl?”

          “The girl that would walk by here all the time to go home. She came in once with Detectives Bullock and Gordon, remember?”

          “That little harlot,” Penguin sneered, and for a moment, Butch wanted nothing more than to break his beaky nose. “What about her?”

          “I’ve always liked her, even though I’ve only talked to her a few times. And now she’s out on the streets.”

          “She’s not the first homeless kid in Gotham, Butch.”

          “No, not that. She’s out selling. She’s a Petra.” Penguin arched an eyebrow, considerably more interested.

          “Really?”  
          “Yeah,” Butch sighed. He really didn’t know why he was confiding in little Penguin, it was never his job to speak, only to be seen and to intimidate. “And she’s out there, with the Petra killer still on the loose.”

          Penguin grinned, his lips parting to reveal almost all of his yellowed teeth. It was a grin that Butch had seen many times before, a grin he’d seen first in the alleyway, when Penguin was only a little shrimp hired to hold Fish’s umbrella, beating the living daylights out of some guy with a baseball bat. It was the grin that revealed him as a sadistic man, the grin that made Butch’s blood run cold, no matter how many times he’d been exposed to it. It was the grin that meant he was planning pain for someone else.

          “That means we could get away with it.”

          Butch’s stomach flipped. “Get away with what?”

          “Murder, of course.”

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Butch. He's one of my absolute favorites.


	25. Liza and Her Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also one of my favorites to write. I wrote this one forever ago and have been waiting to tie it in.

Finally. There were some times in life when life played directly into his hand, and he’d be damned if he weren’t going to take advantage of it.

          He hated her. He hated her more than he could bear. That slimy little bitch coming back to guilt him. Coming back to haunt him. In his mind, he knew that the little eyesore from the GCPD wasn’t Liza reincarnate, but she looked enough like her to bother him.

          He had played Liza to get what he wanted, and he knew without acknowledging it that that wasn’t the only reason that he’d given her away. Liza was beautiful, and he’d admired her from afar for a long while, shamefully ignoring her connection with Fish in order to build her up on a pedestal in his mind. He was attracted to her, plain and simple, as much as he hated to admit it.

          He’d broken into her apartment on more occasions than he’d ever confess to, just to sit in her chair, admire her fine clothes, and breathe in the scent of her perfume.  His mother had thrown a fit once, when he’d come home smelling like her, and she demanded to know whose bed he’d spent the day in. He had lain in her bed only once though; eyes closed, pretending that she was sleeping beside him, and trying in vain to ignore the tightening in his expensive suit pants. He panicked when he heard the door key turn in its lock and ended up vaulting out the window, painfully landing on the fire escape a floor below.

          But then he’d broken in to wait for her, to tell her that he knew what she was up to. He had wanted her to see how cunning he was, how well he was to play this game. He wanted to show her that despite the effect she had on him, he wouldn’t be completely spineless. And it was then that he’d seen something in her eyes. She was repulsed by him, and that threw him back into the bitter reality that every woman he’d ever met was repulsed by him, except for his sainted mother. It dawned on him then that it would cost him to get distracted like that again. He let it all go then, betrayed her, and was infinitely overjoyed to see Falcone strangle her with his bare hands. He only wished that he could’ve killed her himself.

          And then the little snipe had come in with Gordon and Bullock, looking exactly like the angel he’d made her in his mind. He thought she was a ghost at first glance, a lover betrayed, coming back for revenge.

          But they’d only been lovers in his mind.

          He’d hated the girl since she’d stepped in the doors of his club, seemingly returning to the place where she had died before. He had cowered before her, a beautiful stranger returning to haunt him. And he hated her because while his mind remembered all too well her face when he stood close to her, his body still reacted in the same manner that it had before. Her hand was warm and soft when he shook it, and he shuddered, still remembering how it had felt.

          He had shown fear, and that bastard Detective Bullock had used it against him, asking the girl to sit close just to unnerve him. She held too much power over him, physically as well as mentally. And now the detectives knew that something about her threw him off.

          Therefore, the bitch needed to die. But rarely was it so easily arranged. She was out on the streets, a Petra no less. They were practically hunted animals these days. So if she died, no one would suspect anyone but the Petra killer. It was perfect. Rarely did fate make things so easy for him. Maybe along the way somehow, he’d done something celestially right to deserve this.

          He looked back to Butch, and sat on the stool next to him. He liked her, for some inexplicable reason. But Butch was his, and he’d do whatever was asked of him.

          “Butch, I want her dead.”

          Butch looked up from his empty glass, a pained and contorted look to his face. Oswald had seen that face before, on the rooftop where Fish had died. That face was a battle playing out between the orders given to him and his own emotions. “Don’t make me do it. I don’t want to kill her.”

          Oswald reddened, angry. Butch had never refused him a request before. “I want her dead.”

          Butch lowered his head onto the bar, knocking the empty tumbler to the floor. “I- I can’t do that.”

          “I’ll call Victor. He doesn’t like me, but he can’t refuse a kill.” Butch was silent.

          Oswald sat for a moment. If he wanted, he could have her brought back here, and take what he had been longing for. He allowed himself to imagine it for a moment before straightening, looking at all the different brands of alcohol behind the bar. No, he didn’t want to see her alive again. He wouldn’t indulge himself with her, because, in his mind, it was almost like admitting that she held power over him.

          No, his reward for killing Liza and her ghosts would be nothing more than enjoying a glass of expensive sherry while watching her lifeless body being brought before him.

          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How were these last two chapters? They were really out of my comfort zone, so any feedback would be appreciated! Endless thanks for reading my little fics. :_


	26. Sluts Like You

          Harley puffed a warm breath of air between her frigid fingers. Thank heavens for the gaudy tights; otherwise, her legs would be as cold as her hands. Her corner hadn’t had much traffic, from what she guessed. She had only been approached twice; once by a young looking man, asking in a stutter, and once by a older man gruffly inquiring if she “specialized” in anything. She turned them both down politely, and they both left without too much grumbling.

          She hugged her coat tighter around her and checked her phone. 12:34. She realized that she had no idea how long she was supposed to stay out here. She had seen a van a block away, advertising a catering company that she didn’t recognize, and she assumed it was the GCPD’s van, packed with a few officers, waiting for any trouble.

          Someone cleared their throat, and Harley turned towards the sound. A man stood about six feet away, wearing a heavy overcoat.

          “You look cold,” He said, his voice softer and gentler than Harley would have imagined.

          “I am cold.” Harley paused. “Can I help you?”

          The man cocked his head, and a small smile played on his lips. “I hope so.” He approached, and Harley watched him warily. “You’re quite beautiful,” He said, hands shuffling in his pockets. He began to walk around her, and when Harley turned to face him again, he stopped abruptly.

          “Please, I’d like to look at you. But my preferred view is the back of your head, if you catch my meaning,” He said casually, continuing his stroll around her. She faced forward again, gritting her teeth and seething anger.

          _Who does he think he is? Back of my head, good heavens._

          Suddenly, a hand wrapped itself in her hair and yanked her backward, clamping another across her mouth before she could scream. She was being dragged backwards into the alley, kicking and writhing.

          The man pushed her against a dingy brick wall, still holding a hand over her mouth. “Sluts like you,” He hissed, cheeks flushed. “Have been tempting me on my walk home for months now.”

          Harley whimpered and shook her head, but the man only pushed her harder into the wall. “Do you know how hard it is?” He spat, one hand fumbling in his coat pocket. “How hard it is to say no?”

          His long fingers emerged holding a long shining knife, and his hand tightly muffled Harley’s scream. He held it up, watching the blade glint in the dim streetlight. “And every time I say no,” He looked her in the eyes and Harley felt a silent tear slide down her cheek. “It means I’ve beaten one more slut like you.”  

          He pressed the knife against her neck, and Harley kicked hard, hitting the man in the groin. He fell backwards, head hitting the ground, and moaned. Harley began to sprint, reaching into her pocket for the signaling unit, and felt cold fingers close around her ankle, pulling her to the ground, hitting her face painfully against the pavement. The small plastic badge flew from her hand, skittering a few feet away.

          “If you think you can get away from me that easy, you’ve got another thing coming,” The man laughed, getting to his feet and standing over Harley. He reached down, grabbing the collar of her coat and pulling her up roughly. His hand struck heavy across her face, his ring opening skin above her eye. He shoved her against the wall again, holding her in the air, a hand closed around her throat. Harley choked, futile hands dangling at her sides, feeling her fingers brush against the lid of a trash can.

          _A trash can?_

          “You’re the best one yet,” the man said, slicing her coat open and trailing the blade across her skin. “You’re the most tempting one yet. But you won’t win.” He scoffed, smiling. “Oh, no, you won’t win. Every time I kill a whore, it means that I’m refusing you and I won’t fall prey to your-“

          The metal lid struck squarely across the man’s temple, surprisingly hard, causing a blunt slunk sound as aluminum hit flesh. The man grunted softly and  let go of her, staggering back, dazed. She slid painfully down the wall and gained her footing before striking at him again, with more force. The skin of his forehead sliced open, spilling blood down into his closed eyes.

          She stood over him for a moment, gasping and choking, rubbing her throat. Her vision blurred, and she couldn’t see if he was still breathing.  She staggered down the alleyway, looking for the plastic badge. She’d never been more happy to see anything in her entire life.

          The van pulled into the alley as she reached the sidewalk, panting. She couldn’t seem to think of what to say when Jim ran to her. Other officers rushed by her into the alley, bumping her and almost knocking her over. She held a hand to her forehead. So dizzy.

          “What happened?” He took her shoulders. “Did you get him?”

          Harley looked at him, confused. His voice was distorted, and though she could hear what he said, she didn’t know what he meant. Blood was dripping into her eye now, and she couldn’t seem to find her balance. “Harley?” Jim asked, taking her chin into his hand gently. “Can you hear me?”

          “Of course I can hear you. But barely.” She mumbled, her words spilling out before she could stop them.

          Jim frowned, and reach behind her, feeling the back of her head. She winced and glared at him. Jim’s hand came back bloody. A wave of dizziness swept over her. “Jim…” She mumbled, beginning to fall.

          Suddenly, the ground rushed out from under her as Jim scooped her into his arms, carrying her back to the van. Nausea swam in her head and her stomach flipped as she vomited onto the pavement, narrowly missing Jim’s arm.

          Jim set her down in the back of the van, wrapping his coat around her. “Jim,” She moaned, resting her head on his shoulder.

          “What?”

          “I think I killed him.” She felt his arm wrap around her and draw her closer to him.

          “I think you have a concussion. We’re going to the hospital as soon as the ambulance gets here.” Jim said more, but she couldn’t hear anything else past the ringing in her ears until she passed out, swallowed by the silence of unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done! :)


	27. A Little Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge gaps between updates! I meant to have this finished by the season two premiere. I'll probably try to work Harley into season two, but for now, this fic is still taking place in the gap between season one and season two.

The doctor was pulling her swollen eyelids apart with a gloved finger. Although his touch was gentle, pain radiated through Harley’s head, making her sway. “Do you know your name?” He asked, shining a penlight in her face. She winced.

          “Harley. Harley Quinzel.” He moved the light to her good eye and let the swollen one close again. But the radiating pain didn’t cease.

          “Can you tell me if you recognize the man in the corner?” Harley rolled her eyes. This was getting tedious.

          “I could if you stopped blinding me,” She said, her words biting more than she’d meant them to. Jim smirked, leaning against the wall. Maybe she was being rude, but she was tired, bloodied, and being forced to answer stupid questions. She just wanted a hot shower and a good night’s sleep.

          The doctor frowned. “I’m almost done. We need to assess the possible damage. Do you know the man or not?”

          Harley sighed. “His name is James Gordon. He’s a detective for the Gotham City Police Department, and has a strong penchant for stirring up trouble.” She smirked at Jim, who nodded amusedly at the doctor.

          “Right on all counts.”

          The doctor was not entertained. “Can you tell me what day it is?” Harley sighed heavily, then stopped. It felt like she once knew, but didn’t now. It was winter, and early in the morning, but she had no idea of the exact date.

          “No, I don’t believe I can.” The doctor smiled smugly as if he’d solved something, and straightened.

          “Detective Gordon, if you’d follow me into the hall.” Harley sighed. The clock on the wall said it was four. She ran a hand gingerly through her hair, not wanting to touch any of the stitched-up cuts on her face. They’d been here since one, and she wanted to go home. She was cold and tired and dirty.

          The door opened again, and Jim entered alone, holding his hand out to help her off the exam table. “What’s the verdict?”

          “Severe concussion. Two weeks off work, nothing physically or mentally straining.”

          Harley laughed. “Nygma’s going to be heartbroken. Do I get to go home now?”

          “You can if you want,” Jim said, helping her into her coat. “But I figured you could sit in on the Petra Killer interrogation.”

          She grinned, chiding. “Really? Even after the holding pen incident?”

          Jim sighed. “Yeah, sorry about that. You shouldn’t have been alone and Jerome’s a, uh, special case. And you’re not technically allowed to sit in tonight because you’re injured, but you caught the guy. You deserve it. You can even lead if you want.”

          The drove to the precinct in relative silence, the act of talking painful for Harley. She was surprised at the enthusiasm the main floor held upon her arrival, applauding and smiling as she passed. The sound made her head throb.

          But the interrogation room was quiet and dark, a solace in the noisy building. The man sitting at the table smiled as she entered. “Hello again,” He said, his voice soft. “You must have one terrible headache, the way I threw you.”

          Harley tensed, and Jim’s face told her that he was already regretting his decision to let her lead. She sat calmly, and Jim remained standing behind her. “Concussion, actually. Thanks for the concern.”

          “I didn’t say I cared.” He said casually. “You shouldn’t confuse an observation with concern.”

          “And you shouldn’t confuse an undercover officer for a prostitute.”

          The man smirked, looking Harley up and down. “Can you really blame me?”

          “Enough of the banter. What’s your name?”

          “My name is Eric Gleeson.”

          “Citizen of Gotham?”

          “Moved here two years ago,” He answered disinterestedly.

          “And why are you killing prostitutes?”

          “Because they do the devil’s work.” His voice was calm. “They tempt and try to steal you through their bodies. I’m simply ridding the city of one teasing harlot at a time.”

          Harley leaned forward, placing her palms on the table, and feigned disappointment. “To be honest, I was expecting the backstory to be a little more interesting.” She heard Jim stifle a laugh behind her, and the man’s face darkened. “But in all seriousness, you really think that you’re saving people from sin by murdering people?”

          “I’m removing the temptation of lust from the streets.” Gleeson pursed his lips.

          Harley paused. “But… You’re killing people.”

          He looked up into her eyes and smirked. “I’d hardly consider those whores people.” Harley flushed with anger. “Would you? Look at what they do with what-“

          “What about me?” Harley interrupted, leaning back and propping her heels on the table for emphasis.

          “What about you?” Gleeson sighed, looking wearily at her shoes.

          “I’m not a prostitute, but you said I tempted you. I’m not doing the devil’s work, but I’m stopping you from ridding the city of _harlots_.” Harley lowered her head to examine a run in her tights, and looked up at him through heavy lashes. “What about me, Mr. Gleeson? Am I simply an innocent girl posing as a dirty prostitute? A sheep in wolf’s clothing? Or am I evil, a cunning actress disguising myself as the hunted to lead the hunter into a trap? An agent of chaos set on destroying your goal?”

          Gleeson stared at her, taken aback. Harley smiled. “Good and evil is a matter of perspective. One must become evil to rid the world of it. If you want to fight a dragon, you have to follow it into its cave.”

          Gleeson looked at her from across the table, a questioning glance playing across his face. Suddenly, his serious face broke, and he began to laugh, loud and brash. “Only in Gotham would one defend the pathetic lives of whores.” His laughter was mocking, and it made Harley redden, burning with anger.

          She stood quickly, knocking her chair away from her, and slapped him across the face with the back of her hand. He cried out in surprise and pain, and she felt her ring cut into the side of his cheek. Harley smiled.

          “Harley!” The sound made her head throb. Jim had her firmly, but not painfully, by the arm. She sighed, shrugged him off, and picked up her chair.

           Harley glared at the man sitting at the table. “I think I’ll go home now. I’m a little tired of the stupidity.” She opened the door and slammed it behind her.

          Jim followed her out. “Hey,” He said, catching her by a sleeve.

          “What?” She snapped, whirling around to face him.

          Jim looked taken aback. “What’s wrong?”

          “I just- I really liked some of those girls that helped me.”

          Jim nodded, licking his lips. “You know, Harvey stayed here until it was certain that you were going to be okay.” Harley stayed silent. “He sat around and worried for hours until we knew that you weren’t hurt. He loves you, Harley. He’s too stubborn to admit that he cares about you.”

          “I know.” She looked at Jim, his concern obvious in his eyes. “I’ll talk to him eventually. I just need to go home and sleep.”

          Jim nodded, opening the door of the interrogation room. “See you tomorrow.”

          “Miss Quinn!” A voice shouted. “Miss Quinn, are you alright?”

          “It’s Quinzel. You know that.”

          “I know. Maybe I just like getting a rise out of you.” Dent grinned charmingly, and Harley smiled in spite of herself. “You were just the person I wanted to see.”

          She looked around amusedly. “At six or so in the morning?”

          “I was told that the Petra Killer was caught. And you had something to do with it.”

          She chucked softly. “One could say that. I went undercover.”

          “And sustained a few injuries.”

          She shuffled past him. “A few cuts and a concussion. It’s nice to see you, but I was just leaving-“

          He took her arm, determination playing across his face. “Miss Quinzel, I promise you that the sacrifice you’ve made tonight will not go unnoticed by the city. Gotham’s newest hero will be recognized.”

          “Mr. Dent, I don’t want-“

          He smiled excitedly. “You’ll be on the front page of every newspaper. The young woman who did her duty, despite her position at the department.”

          “Harvey-“

          He walked away, talking to himself. “We could get a interview on the news… Summer Gleeson owes me a favor…” Harley watched him leave, and sighed. So much for not gaining any attention.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support! :)


	28. Hell Hath No Fury

          She shuffled to Nygma’s lab to retrieve her things. It seemed so empty, so dead, without him, scurrying around, muttering or shouting riddles. The morning sun was shining through the windows, and it glinted across the autopsy table, throwing light against Nygma’s filing cabinets.

          “Private files,” He’d told her during her first week. “Just some solo projects, old papers, things like that. All the files relating to police cases are kept in the records annex.” Harley glanced at the cabinets, the sunlight seemingly shining a spotlight them. What was in there that he couldn’t share with her? She was his best friend, or so he claimed.

          _Take a look._

          “I can’t do that,” Harley whispered. “That’s his private business.”

          _It’s probably just a bunch of medical papers he wrote. What’s the big deal?_

“If he wanted me to see them, he’d have shown them to me.”

          _What if it’s something that needs to be found? Something illegal?_

“Nygma, doing anything illegal? Listen to yourself.”

          _It’s a possibility until proved wrong. Just look._ Harley sighed, walking to the corner.

          “It’s going to be locked.”

          _Still worth a try._ She reached out, grasped the handle, and the drawer slid out easily. The voice smiled.

          Papers. Files standing neatly organized in manila folders. There were labels written in Nygma’s terrible handwriting that Harley could barely make out. No wonder he typed nearly everything, or made her fill out police files. Her fingers darted inside the drawer, occasionally picking up a file and flipping through it. Scrawled handwriting overlapped hastily drawn diagram. Harley squinted. A chemical equation, maybe. She put the file back, picking another labeled, “Dougherty”. Or she thought that’s what it said. How Nygma could read his own writing was beyond her. She paused for a moment, the name seeming vaguely familiar to her. Unable to think of how she knew it, she put the file back without looking through it completely.

          Her fingers skirted through a few more until she found one with a label she could make out. Her heart skipped a beat, and her breath caught confusedly in her throat. The label was short, concise, and written messily like all the others.

          “Crane.”

          _Why does Nygma have a file labeled “Crane” in his personal files?_

“It most likely has to do with Jonathan’s father. Probably belongs in the annex and got misfiled.”

          _You’ve seen annex files. They’re not this messy._ Harley bit her lip. That was true. Annex files were perfectly filled out, or else Kringle had a fit. This couldn’t belong to her.

          Harley’s fingers shook as she looked through the papers. More terrible handwriting. She could only make out a few phrases on every page.

          “ _Gerald Crane. “_

_“Toxin.”_

Harley’s heart began to hammer in her chest.

          “ _Subject Two: ~~Unknown.~~ Jonathan Crane, son.”_

“Subject two?” Harley whispered to the empty room. Nygma had written notes underneath Jonathan’s name.

 

          “ _Concentrated dose, massive brain damage. Constant hallucinations, overactive adrenal gland. Perpetual fear.”_

           She flipped the page and found more chemical equations. Her eyes flitted across the page, searching frantically for any words that she could recognize. What was this about?

          _“Revised antidote compound:”_ Underneath was a list of chemicals she couldn’t recognize, along with an amount. It read almost like a recipe.

          Harley realized she was holding her breath. “Antidote?” Nygma had created an antidote? She felt a hot tears linger in her eyes. There was an antidote for Jonathan. She smiled in relief, hugging the file to her chest. Jonathan could be okay.

          _Wait a second._ The voice countered carefully. _Look in the corner. At the top._

          In the right corner of the page, the paper was dated from last November, shortly after Jonathan was hospitalized. Nygma made this last autumn? Before Harley began working at the precinct, before she’d mentioned Jonathan. But Nygma had acted like he’d never heard of Jonathan, yet here was her childhood friend’s name, scrawled in the handwriting of a man she thought she knew well.

          He had kept this from her. Harley felt her face flush. Nygma had the information necessary to cure her best friend and give her back something that she thought was lost forever. And he had kept that information to himself.

          He had acted like he had no idea who she was talking about. He had answered her casually, as if he didn’t hold the key to Jonathan’s sanity. How dare he? If anything she’d observed of him was true, this was some sort of sick power he thought he held, standing intellectually over everyone while he was bullied and ignored in the precinct. Sure, he was taken for granted here, but it sure was comforting, knowing that he could choose to grant others their sanity, or leave them drowning in their own madness.

          Harley slammed the file cabinet shut, stuffing the file into her bag, burning with anger.

          _What are you going to do with it?_

          “I have no idea.” She found the bleach wipes in the cabinet, and wiped down the handle and front of the cabinet, erasing her trail that Nygma could deftly follow. He’d notice it was missing, but why should he suspect her?

          She’d look through the rest of the file when she got home, and maybe decipher some of the messier writing. She gritted her teeth and stalked out of the lab. This was not something to be taken lightly, to rush. Nygma likely wouldn’t notice the missing file for a week at least. In all the time she’d worked with him, he only opened the cabinet once in a blue moon. Her response would take planning. She didn’t know yet what she was going to do, but it wouldn’t be kind and it sure as hell wouldn’t be forgiving. The voice grinned maniacally, feeding off her rage.

          _Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned._


	29. That's What Friends Do

          “Name?” The nurse looked skeptically up at her through reinforced glass.

          “Harleen Quinzel, here to see Jonathan Crane. Dr. Thompkins called ahead for me and said it’d be alright for me to come in.” The nurse nodded, uninterested. The security door buzzed, and Harley pushed it open. She listened to the sound of her heels clicking along the floor. It was usually a comforting sound, the sound of a determined stride, a walk with purpose. But along Arkham’s halls it sounded brash and empty, and Harley did all she could to quiet her steps. Why she continued to wear heels during her weeks off was beyond her, but it just felt more natural, after weeks of wearing them every day.

          Arkham was such a dismal place, from its pale, faded walls to the chipped linoleum paving the long, wide hallways. It reminded her more of Bedlam than any modern mental health facility. Her nightmares had all but ceased completely, but the image of her friends stalking towards her, eyes carved out of their faces, in these very halls made gooseflesh rise on her arms. She quickened her pace and found the window of Jonathan’s room sooner than she expected.

          Looking through the dirty glass, Harley’s heart gave an involuntary jump. Jonathan was sleeping. His unusual stillness made her think for a moment that he was dead, leaned against the wall, trapped in a straightjacket. She smiled softly and prayed she wouldn’t cry. He was sleeping. Not dead, not terrorized by the torrential collection of hallucinations that held him in its grasp during his waking hours. He was asleep, long, unkempt hair hanging into his face.

          A small orderly wandered up next to her, and followed her gaze into his room. “He’s getting better, you know,” She said quietly. “He hardly has to wear the jacket anymore. He fell asleep before we could take it off, and we know better than to wake him. Poor soul barely gets enough sleep as it is.”

          “Could I go in?”

          “You’re Harley, yes?” Harley looked down at her.

          “Dr. Thompkins told you I was coming?”

          The orderly shook her head. “No, he speaks of you,” She said, nodding towards the window. “When his head is clear.” Her smiling eyes glanced up at Harley. “Says you’re very pretty. He’s right.”

          “He- He remembers me?”

          “Sometimes. As I said, he’s getting better.”

          “Could I- Is there any way I could get a pair of scissors? He needs his hair cut.”

          The nurse frowned, thinking. “Maybe. But you’d have to have someone outside, watching. I’ll see what I can do.” She walked away briskly. Harley opened the door, heart pounding. He remembered. He knew her. Maybe only sometimes, but it was still better than nothing.

          “Jonathan?” She called softly, approaching the cot, and he stirred. His arms moved as if to brush his hair from his eyes, a movement Harley had seen many times before, but the sleeves of the straightjacket restricted him. He jumped suddenly at the realization of imprisonment, and Harley watched fear creep into his eyes. She covered the distance between them in two long strides. “Jonathan, it’s okay,” She whispered, and he stared wildly at her, breathing heavily. Her hands moved towards him, and he flinched. With shaking fingers, she slowly undid the clasps of the jacket, freeing his arms, and rolled the long sleeves up until his hands were exposed. As soon as she let go, he threw it off completely, shuddering as cool air swept over his arms. He shook the hair out of his face, and stared at Harley, scooting to the corner of the cot, as far away from her as possible.

          She reached out, and he shied away even further. “Jonathan?” His mouth twitched at the mention of his name. Harley’s heart leapt. He could hear her, and he knew she was talking to him. She reached out slowly, and even though he looked wary, he didn’t move away. Her fingers shakily brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Jonathan, it’s okay. It’s me.” His eyes brushed over her, focused, but unrecognizing. There was a knock on the window, Harley turned, and Jonathan jumped, alarmed. The orderly waved, holding a pair of styling scissors against the glass.

          As Harley stood, Jonathan lunged, crying out and catching her arm. He stared up at her, eyes begging her not to leave. He stood with her to cross the room, and she took the scissors from the orderly. “I’ll be outside,” She said, looking from Jonathan to Harley. “Good luck. We haven’t been able to get him to keep still long enough.”

          The door closed, and Jonathan pulled nervously at her arm, leaning back to the cot in the corner.

          “Is that where you feel safest?” Harley asked. Much to her surprise, he nodded, and she let him lead her back. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at her expectantly, eyes darting to the far corners of the room. His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh. She brushed his hair down with her fingers. “What do you see, Jonathan? What’s scaring you?”

          Her hand found the side of his face comfortingly, and he leaned against it, satisfied with the contact. “I miss you,” She said, and she didn’t expect him to look up at her with clear, focused eyes, as if he had understood what she’d said. “I can’t really say I miss talking with you, because you hardly ever said a word,” Harley smiled to herself, lifting the scissors to trim the hair on his forehead. “But, I knew you were listening.” Jonathan twitched suddenly, his eyes darting back to the far corner. “Shh, Jonathan, it’s okay,” She rubbed his back and waiting for him to stop shaking before resuming with the scissors. “I knew you understood me.” Harley paused, and felt hot tears in her eyes. She blinked them away quickly, not wanting to cry and possibly upset him. “And maybe that’s what I miss most of all.”

          They continued that way for a while. Jonathan sat relatively still other than when he saw a hallucination, and Harley talked and cut his hair. Seeing him wasn’t as painful as it had been before, but when she looked into his eyes, she could tell that he wasn’t looking back. Anger and sadness swelled in her stomach. “Everything’s going well for me, I suppose. I feel successful, but my job might be a bit too dangerous for me. I’ve almost died twice, lost most of my blood supply, and got a concussion. I’m thinking of leaving.” Harley’s voice hardened. “And the people there aren’t always who they say they are.” She cut carefully around his ears. “One of them can fix you. He can help you. He doesn’t want to, but he will anyway. I can make him. I will, because we’re friends. And friends do what they can to help each other.”

          Harley could feel her stomach twisting. Nygma. He said he was her friend, said he cared, said he loved her. Tears gathered once again in her eyes and this time she let them fall. She felt the scissors drop from her hand, and she collapsed on the cot beside Jonathan, curling into the corner as the first sob escaped her lips. He said he cared about her. He saved her life, spent a week in her hospital room, waiting for her to wake up. He let her stay in his apartment when she needed, he gave her every yellow rose in Gotham.

          _But what does any yellow rose mean now?_

          “Nothing!” She sobbed, and Jonathan started, seeming to notice for the first time that she had moved. He looked at her confusedly, and then his face softened.

          Nygma had done everything he could to help her when she was broken. But the thing she wanted most he had purposely kept from her. And he knew how she missed Jonathan. “Why would he do that?” Her voice was thick with tears. She was tired. Tired of all the danger and all the murder and all the lies. Tired of everyone she needed leaving her. And the one person that had been there for her had betrayed her.

          A hand closed over hers. Harley looked up, and Jonathan was leaning towards her, his face filled with concern. He shuffled closer to her and leaned his head against her shoulder, still holding her hand in his.

          And she broke, tears streaming messily down her face, Jonathan’s finger tracing circles on the back of her hand. In that moment, it was as if they were back in school, Harley crying about her father, and Jonathan silently comforting her in the only way he knew how. It was as if he wasn’t insane. It was as if nothing had changed.

          Harley sniffled and spoke through shaky breaths. “I’m going to fix you. I’m going to help you, because I love you and I can see how much you suffer. Nothing in the world means more to me than you. And I’ll do anything to help you.”

          She sighed and wiped her face with her sleeve. She looked at Jonathan with determined eyes darkening. “I’ll kill him if I have to.”


	30. Anything But

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!

          Harley groaned and rolled over in bed and pulled a pillow over her head, trying to ignore the shrill ringing of her phone. She had been dreaming of the redheaded boy again. What he had to do with anything, Harley wasn’t sure, but he’d become a frequent guest to her dreaming subconscious. Her phone stopped ringing, and Harley sighed contentedly, closing her eyes. Not a minute later, it rang again.

          Muttering under her breath, she rolled toward her bed table and glanced at the screen. Jim was calling her. Why on earth was Jim calling her at seven in the morning?

          “Hello?” She muttered sleepily, raking a hand through her tangled hair.

          “Did you just wake up?” Jim asked incredulously. “It doesn’t seem like you.”

          “Well, if Essen, the saint that she is, gave you a month to recover from a severe concussion, you’d sleep in too.” Jim chuckled across the line.

          “Listen, we need you to come down to the precinct today and fill out a witness report for the Petra Killer.”

          “I did that the night it happened, before I left. It’s in the file.”

          There was an awkward pause, and Jim cleared his throat. “We, uh, we lost it.”

          It was Harley’s turn to be incredulous. “I filed it myself under Miss Kringle’s supervision, and you… lost it.”

          She could almost hear Jim shifting uneasily in his chair. “Yes. We lost it.”

          She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

          “Thanks, Harley. Also, wear something nice.” The line clicked.

          “What?”

          Jim was gone, and a dial tone sounded.

          Harley got out of bed and made breakfast. Wear something nice? She dressed quickly, choosing a skirt and blouse that had been typical in the weeks prior to her injury. She shrugged into the red peacoat, still dirty from the fight in the alley. It was beginning to grow on her, despite its gaudy color.

          The walk to the precinct was cold and uneventful, and she was glad to push through the heavy wooden doors, feeling a rush of warm air as she walked inside.

          “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” The entire precinct roared, and she was so startled that she dropped the gloves she’d been shedding.

          Nygma all but sprinted up to her, enveloping her in his long arms. He didn’t feel her body tense as he touched her, and he didn’t notice how her smile didn’t reach her eyes when she pulled away from him.

          “Happy birthday, Harley,” He grinned. Jim and Essen approached behind him.

          “So, I assume that I’m not here to fill out a witness report.”

          Jim smiled smugly. “Nope.”

          “Also, why did I have to wear something nice?”

          Jim frowned slightly, and Essen sighed. “Harvey Dent is here with a reporter from the Gotham Gazette.” She rolled her eyes. “I told them that you didn’t want any attention, but now the city is dying to know who this intern is that stopped the Petra Killer.”

          “Where are they?”

          “My office. You don’t have to talk to them if you don’t want to.”

          “No, we wouldn’t want to disappoint the assistant district attorney. I’ll be back.” Harley smiled and headed to the stairs.

          “Harley!” Nygma called after her, holding a box in his hands, wrapped in a green ribbon. She had barely noticed him slinking back to his office while Essen was talking.

          “What is it?” She fought hard to keep the bitterness from her voice.

          “This is for you,” He thrust the box at her, and she took it gingerly. “Happy birthday.” She untied the ribbon and took off the lid to find an off-white ceramic mug, similar to his, nestled in the green tissue paper. The side was emblazoned with a two diamonds, one red and one black.

          “Edward, what is this?”

          “Everyone’s calling you the Harlequin.” A small gasp escaped her throat.

          “That makes sense.” She looked up at him, and her voice was caring, though she hated herself for it. He could be so sweet sometimes; it was hard to believe that he’d done what he did. “It’s perfect, Nygma, thank you.”

          He grinned. “I’m glad you like it.”There was an uncomfortable pause, and Edward looked down at his feet.

          “Well, I’ve got to go talk to someone from the newspaper.”

          “Yeah, you’re famous now,” Edward muttered.   

          She walked away, and stopped. “Thank you for the present.”

          “Anything for you, Harley.”

          Her face darkened as she went up the stairs, laughing bitterly at herself, thinking that he was sweet. “Anything but Jonathan.”


	31. Summer Gleeson

          “But you knew that this mission would involve risking your life. Why did you agree to do it?”

          Harley sighed, and leaned a little further back into her chair. The woman interviewing her was nice enough, but she was still a journalist. Harley wasn’t sure when her distrust of the media began, but it was made worse around the time of her father’s death, when his face was plastered on all the front pages, calling him a sadistic, heartless murderer. She pursed her lips, and considered her response. She didn’t like it that Miss Gleeson kept calling her night as a Petra a “mission”, as if she belonged to the CIA or MI6 or something. She wasn’t a spy, wasn’t an assassin, wasn’t even a cop. And she hated how incredulous the question sounded on the journalist’s lips.

          “I agreed to go undercover because a lot of those girls were found in the areas I grew up in. They could have been girls I went to school with. And I didn’t want to watch any more bodies come in while I knew I could do something to help.” Harvey Dent beamed brightly at her from his spot in the corner, leaning against Essen’s desk.

          “I see. So did you identify with the victims?”

          Harley took a moment to consider. “In some ways, yes. Not in the career choice, though,” She smiled a little. “I prefer working here.”

          “And how long have you worked here, at the precinct? What do you do?” Summer glanced toward the desk, checking to see that the recorder was still working.

          “A few months now. I assist the forensic team, as well as the detectives. I help with autopsies, bloodwork, and filing, among other things. I’ve sat in on a few interrogations. I plan to go into criminal psychology as a career, so I figured that this would be the best place in Gotham to get firsthand experience.”

          “And you’ve definitely gotten some.”

          Harley laughed. “You could say that. I’ve come in contact with a lot of interesting people within the past few months.”

          Summer leaned forward, smiling slightly, like a girl playing truth or dare at a sleepover. “And is there anyone, any criminals, you’ve come in contact with that you’d like to talk about? Anyone we’d have heard of?”

          Harley’s brow furrowed. Was this woman asking for gossip about Gotham’s underground? “Definitely, but I don’t really know how much I’m at liberty to say at the moment, my apologies.”

          The woman sitting opposite her tried to smile understandingly, but Harley could tell she was disappointed. “One final question, Miss Quinzel. What do you believe is the most important thing you’ve learned from all of this? From working at the precinct, and catching the Petra Killer?”

          Harley paused. “I think, overall, the most important thing I’ve learned is that people aren’t always who they say they are. The Petras that I met were all very kind, loving women. But there are others that I’ve met,” Harley breathed in sharply, and Edward’s face flashed across her mind. “That project such an innocent, kind appearance, when there’s something much darker lurking underneath. I think what I’m trying to say is that one shouldn’t judge people too quickly, or too harshly, at first glance.”

          Summer nodded. “That’s a very wise statement, one that is applicable outside the police department, applicable in our own lives.” She paused. “I think that’s all we need for the article. Thank you for your time, Miss Quinzel.” She stood and straightened her lavender business skirt. Harley extended a hand, and Summer took it.

          “Thank you. I trust that you won’t sensationalize my actions.” The journalist frowned slightly, and Harley continued. “I only agreed to this interview on behalf of my dear friend Mr. Dent. I’d like to get over this as soon as possible, without being made into some sort of moral leader or superhero.” Harley paused, considering how rude she probably sounded. “In all honesty, Miss Gleeson, I’d just like to continue my life as quietly and as safely as possible.”

          Summer nodded. “Of course. Thank you again, Miss Quinzel. I’ll be going back now. _The Gazette_ needs me behind my desk again.” Harley watched her leave, wondering if she’d judged her too harshly at the beginning of the interview. She turned back to Harvey Dent, who grinned.

          “For such a sweet-looking person, you certainly can pack a punch. Verbally, at least.”

          Harley grinned back. “Isn’t that what I was just talking about? Don’t judge a book by its cover, Mr. Dent, and don’t judge me by my smile.” She turned to leave, and he followed. He said something after her, but she was too distracted to hear it.

          Bullock was on the landing, near his desk. As she left Essen’s office, she watched him attempt to stand, and fall back in his chair, hissing in pain. He stood shakily again, making sure to keep the weight off of one foot, encased in a heavy plaster cast.

          Without thinking, she rushed to him and slid his arm over her shoulders to steady him. He sighed when he saw her.

          “You need help.”

          “I’ve been worse,” He grunted.

          “It’s five o’clock. I’ll help you get home.” He glared at her, wanting to refuse the help, but knowing that he needed it.

          “Harley-“

          “Shut up. You’re too stubborn to mend fences, but after almost dying for the second time, I’ve decided that I don’t care if you’re still mad at me.” They stared at each other for a moment, each studying the other. Harvey sighed.

          “Fine.”

         


	32. Mending Fences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry yet again for the sporadic updates. 
> 
> But thank you so much for your support!

She helped him down the stairs and out of the precinct, where she hailed a cab. “You’re not walking all the way home on that cast. You should still be on crutches.”

          Harvey grunted.

          When they got to his apartment, it was in shambles, as usual, but Harley’s heart warmed at the familiar smell of leather and spearmint. She helped him into a kitchen chair and turned to the fridge.

          “Do you eat anything but takeout?” She shoved countless boxes aside, looking for something better to eat.

          “I don’t eat much anyway these days.”

          “Well, you should.” She found two bottles of beer in the back and popped the tops, setting one in front of Harvey. She sat across from him, and he raised an eyebrow.

          “What?” She asked, raising the bottle to her lips.

          “I’m, uh, I’m sorry I yelled at you. You’re right, it’s really none of my business what you do.”

          Harley sat for a moment, stunned. Harvey wasn’t one for apologies, much less admitting that he was wrong.

          “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you myself. I know that you were worried about me.” Harvey nodded and sipped at his beer.

          “You know, I’m kind of thinking of leaving the GCPD. I don’t know if I can handle anymore,” She said.

          Harvey paused for a moment, thinking. “I guess I couldn’t really blame you. You’ve been through more in five months than some cops have been through in their whole careers.” He looked up at her. “What are you going to do?”

          “I’ve applied for my license to be a nurse’s assistant. I got all the requirements done a long time ago, but never got around to it. I was thinking of applying at Arkham, and going back to college. I still want to be a psychologist.”

          Harvey chucked gruffly around his beer. “You’re leaving one dangerous place for another.”

          “It’s not that bad.”

          “Yeah, it is. You remember the Electrocutioner in the papers about a year ago? He was locked up in there. Hell, Jim’s ex-girlfriend is locked up in there.”

          “Really?”

          “Yeah, she was crazy. Not ex-girlfriend crazy, but killed-her-parents crazy.”

          Harley’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

          “Yeah, Arkham’s a bad deal. You take a bunch of criminal lunatics and put ‘em all together, they come out twice as bad as when they went in.”

          “That’s why I want to be there. I want to see what’s wrong. So when I’m older, I can help. I want to fix it. I want to make some progress with these patients,” She said, thinking of Jonathan. “I want to see if some of them could return to their old lives, and go back out into the world.”

          Harvey sighed. “You’re an idealist. Just like Jim. And I’m gonna tell you the same thing I told him. You can’t be rigid in a town like this. You can’t have all these high morals and lofty goals. If you can’t bend, you’ll get broken.”

          “I won’t get broken.”

          Harvey looked at her. “I hope not. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand to see it.”

          “Is that the closest thing to an ‘I care about you’?”

          Harvey nodded. “I do care about you, Harley. You remind me of someone from a long time ago.”

          Harley paused, biting her lip, not sure if she should say it. “Do I remind you of Rory?”

          Harvey looked surprised for a moment, but his eyes softened into a sadness that Harley had never seen before. “Yeah, you remind me of Rory.”

         

 


	33. Rory and Harley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rory is an Irish name, usually for a boy, meaning "red king", as an attribute to her red hair. 
> 
> Also, the word count for this chapter came out as 666. Spooky, just in time for Halloween.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos!

          Harvey was quiet for a moment, licking his lips. Harley didn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt whatever thoughts were playing out in his mind. He dug in his pocket for a moment, and pulled out his wallet. Opening it, he slid out a worn and folded photograph.

          “Rory,” He said quietly, handing it to her. She took it wordlessly and unfolded it. A girl about her age smiled back up at her. “That was her sophomore school picture.” The girl had his gray-blue eyes, but hers were brighter, and smiling. Her hair was darker, a stunning deep auburn.

          “Harvey,” Harley gasped softly. “She’s beautiful.” He didn’t look up at her.

          “She looked like her mother.” Harvey spoke so quietly that she almost misheard him.

          “Looked?”

          He shook his head, and she noticed that there were tears in his eyes. Harley’s heart leapt into her throat.

          “She died ten years ago.” He ran a hand through his hair, letting the first tear fall.

          Harley could barely speak. She’d always wondered who Rory was, ever since she’d overheard him mention the name to Essen. She’d thought it too inappropriate to ask. Even Jim didn’t know who she was. She had wondered for a long time, suspecting a daughter, grown-up and out of his life. But she’d never expected this. “W- What happened?”

          “Cancer.” There was a heavy pause, and Harvey downed the rest of his beer. “How does a parent fight that?” His eyes were ringed in red. “How- What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t fight anyone. My entire life, my entire career is righting the wrongs. Putting people away who hurt others. But when Rory got sick… There was nothing I could do to help her. I was just- I was completely-“

          “Helpless,” Harley whispered, her own tears coming to her eyes.

          “Yes,” Harvey said, his voice cracked with tears. “And she was so much like you. So strong, so smart. I could hardly believe that she was mine. I loved her. I loved her so goddamn much, and when she died, I- I couldn’t do anything.”

          She dragged her chair near his, and took his hand in hers. He didn’t seem to notice. What could she say? What was there to say?

          “And at first it hurt so much to be around you. You sounded like her. I avoided you. But when you needed me, I was there. Because I was always there for her. And it just- It felt sometimes like I had gotten her back. It wasn’t as hard to go home at night. It didn’t feel so empty anymore.”

          “Harvey…” She whispered, tears falling down her cheeks. She understood what he meant. She had found it in her job at the precinct, and the people she met there. She found it in Harvey, and in Nygma, in Leslie and Jim.

          “I found her in you, Harley. I found pieces of myself that I had lost. And after a while I stopped thinking of Rory when I saw you. I just saw you. I watched you almost die in my arms. I wanted to protect you. I need to. ” He looked at her for the first time since he gave her the photo. “I love you, Harley. The same way I loved Rory, but I love you because you’re you.”

          “Like a daughter.”

          “Yes,” He nodded.

          “I love you too, Harvey.” He hugged her, and for once, they cried into each other, crying over loved ones lost, and loved ones found. They had finally solved the puzzle that surrounded them since she had sobbed into his jacket so long ago in the precinct. They fit together like puzzle pieces, filling the other’s void left empty by the death of someone else.

          And Harley could smell the spearmint and leather in his clothes, already relating the scent to something safe. He was something like a father, something like a guardian, something like a friend.

          He was her Harvey.


	34. The Harlequin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! Thank heavens! This was so much fun. :) I plan to stop until the end of the second season, because I like to incorporate the season's happenings into my fic as much as possible. I might write a few one-shots over the next few months, just to keep up with Harley and Jonathan, but they will be few and far between. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your support, I can't believe how amazing you all have been!

“ _If I was a flower growing wild and free, all I’d want is you to be my sweet honey-bee…_ ”

          Harley rolled over and groaned. It felt as if she’d just gotten to sleep.

          “ _If I was a tree growing tall and green, all I’d want is you to shade me and be my leaves..._ ”

          She sat up, and felt around her bedside table for her phone. She turned the alarm back another five minutes, and fell against the pillows, sighing.

          “Arkham,” She said to her empty bedroom, staring at the ceiling. Her first day at Arkham. It had been a long, nervous night, spent tossing around in her bed, waiting for sleep to come. It had taken a long time.

          Harley lay in bed for another minute, and thought about the past week. She’d delivered her resignation to Essen, who was surprised, but understood. Edward hadn’t taken it well, as she’d expected. She had done her best not to stiffen when he hugged her, and promised that they would stay in touch. She gave him another mug, to replace the one he’d broken, and he seemed thankful. Jim had given her a brisk hug, seemingly prompted by Leslie, who had kissed her kindly on the forehead. “Tell me how it goes,” Leslie said. “Arkham can be a tough place.”

           Harvey didn’t get up from his desk when she came to say goodbye, and she hadn’t really expected him to. For the two of them, this was far from goodbye, and they both knew it. He had only tossed the front page of _The Gotham Gazette_ at her, where she found her name plastered across the headline.

          “ _’The Little Intern That Could’_ , Jesus Christ,” He muttered. Harley rolled her eyes.

          “I knew Dent would run with this story.”

          “He ran a marathon with it.”

          Harley smiled, thinking back. It was hard to think back to when she had lived completely on her own, without Harvey or Leslie or Edward. Had she really been so alone, at seventeen? It was hard to think back to her life before the precinct. She frowned. It was also hard to remember what life with Jonathan was like. Before he’d been driven insane.

          She sat up, shaking the thought from her head. That was why she was leaving the GCPD. It was why she was going to Arkham. To learn, to help. She dressed, ate breakfast, and hailed a cab. She stepped into the backseat, rubbing her cold hands together. Arkham. A harsh name for an even harsher place. She thought about what Harvey had told her.

          “Y _ou take a bunch of criminal lunatics and put ‘em all together, they come out twice as bad as when they went in.”_

          The Electrocutioner. A shiver ran down Harley’s spine. She remembered him, his intense, disturbingly serene gaze staring at her from the newspapers. And what had Harvey said about Jim’s ex-girlfriend? She had killed her parents. What had driven her to?

          Harley bit her lip nervously as the cab pulled onto Arkham’s gravel drive. She was walking directly into the lion’s den, she felt. There were no protective forensic analysts or detectives here. She was on her own.

          The cab stopped and the portly cabbie looked at her through the rearview mirror. “You a crazy?” He asked gruffly.

          “No, I’m an employee.”

          The man laughed then coughed, his voice roughened by years of cigarettes. “You’re not much better off then. This place drives even the workers batty.”

          Harley’s mouth became a thin, frustrated line. “My total, please.”

          “Seven eighty nine.”

          She handed him a ten out of her wallet, and stepped out. “Keep the change.”

          The cabbie thanked her and drove away.  She looked up at the once-grand, sprawling buildings before her, stepped halfway up the stairs, and took a deep breath. She remembered her hesitant moments on the steps of the precinct, more than a few months ago. She had been so scared, so alone, so naïve.

          She’d been through hell and back in that place, multiple times. She’d bled out, opened up bodies, been concussed, and posed as a prostitute. She was only eighteen, and had seen more death than most people would see in their entire lives.

          And she had survived.

          She blew a warm breath of air through her cold hands and continued up the steps.

          This was Arkham, and it was terrifying.

          But she was Harley Quinzel, the Harlequin, and she wouldn’t be broken.

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.


End file.
